Why, the poor creature is like a child; lonely, and even restless, all alone here on the rocks. How like a child she was when she said it.... Do you know any new songs? Lythande wished for a moment that she had not left her lute on the shore.
“Do you want me to sing to you?”
“I heard you singing, and it sounded so sweet across the water, my sister. I am sure we have songs and magics to teach one another.”
Lythande said gently, “I will sing to you.”
First she sang, letting her mind stray in the mists of time past, a song she had sung to the sound of the bamboo reed-flute, more than a lifetime ago. It seemed for a moment that Riella sat beside her on the rocks. Only an illusion created by the mermaid, of course. But surely a harmless one! Still, perhaps it was not wise to allow the illusion to continue; Lythande wrenched her mind from the past, and sang the sea-song that she had composed yesterday, as she walked along the shore to this village.
“Beautiful, my sister,” murmured the mermaid, smiling so that the charming little gap in her pearly teeth showed. “Such a musician I have never heard. Do all the people who live on land sing so beautifully?”
“Very few of them,” said Lythande. “Not for many years have I heard such sweet music as yours.”
“Sing again. Sister,” said the mermaid, smiling. “Come close to me and sing again. And then I shall sing to you.”
“And you will come away and let the fisherfolk live in peace?” Lythande asked craftily.
“Of course I will, if you ask it, Sister,” the mermaid said. It had been so many years since anyone had spoken to Lythande, woman to woman, without fear. It was death for her to allow any man to know that she was a woman, and the women in whom she dared confide were so few. It was soothing balm to her heart.
Why, after all, should she go back to the land again? Why not stay here in the quiet peace of the sea, sharing songs and magical spells with her sister, the mermaid? There were greater magics here than she had ever known, yes, and sweeter music, too.
She sang, hearing her voice ring out across the water. The mermaid sat quietly, her head a little turned to the side, listening as if in utter enchantment, and Lythande felt she had never sung so sweetly. For a moment she wondered if, hearing her song echoing from the ocean, any passerby would think that he heard the true song of a mermaid. For surely she, too, Lythande, could enchant with her song. Should she stay here, cease denying her true sex, where, she could be at once woman and magician and minstrel? She, too, could sit on the rocks, enchanting with her music, letting time and sea roll over her, forgetting the struggle of her life as Pilgrim-Adept, being only what she was in herself. She was a great magician; she could feel the very tingle of her magic in the Blue Star on her brow, crackling lightings....
“Come nearer to me, Sister, that I can hear the sweetness of your song,” murmured the mermaid. “Truly, it is you who have enchanted me, magician—”
As if in a dream, Lythande took a step farther up the beach. A shell crunched hard under her foot. Or was it a bone? She never knew what made her look down, to see that her foot had turned on a skull.
Lythande felt ice run through her veins. This was no illusion. Quickly she gripped the left-hand dagger and whispered a spell that would clear the air of illusion and void all magic, including her own. She should have done it before.
The mermaid gave a despairing cry. “No, no, my sister, my sister musician, stay with me... now you will hate me too...” But even as the words died out, like the fading sound of a lute’s broken string, the mermaid was gone, and Lythande stared in horror at what sat on the rocks.
It was not remotely human in form. It was three or four times the size of the largest sea-beast she had ever seen, crouching huge and greenish, the color of sea-weed and sea wrack. All she could see of the head was rows and rows of teeth, huge teeth gaping before her. And the true horror was that one of the great fangs had a chip knocked from it.
Little pearly teeth with a little chip....
Gods of Chaos! I almost walked down that thing’s throat!
Retching, Lythande swung the dagger; almost at once she whipped out the right-hand knife, which was effective against material menace; struck toward the heart of the thing. An eerie howl went up as blackish green blood, smelling of sea wrack and carrion, spurted over the Pilgrim-Adept. Lythande, shuddering, struck again and again until the cries were silent. She looked down at the dead thing, the rows of teeth, the tentacles and squirming suckers. Before her eyes was a childish face, a voice whose memory would never leave her.
And I called the thing “Sister”....
It had even been easy to kill. It had no weapons, no defenses except its song and its illusions. Lythande had been so proud of her ability to escape the illusions, proud that she was not vulnerable to the call of lover or of memory.
Yet it had called, after all, to the heart’s desire... for music. For magic. For the illusion of a moment where something that never existed, never could exist, had called her “Sister,” speaking to a womanhood renounced forever. She looked at the dead thing on the beach, and knew she was weeping as she had not wept for three ordinary lifetimes.
The mermaid had called her “Sister,” and she had killed it.
She told herself, even as her body shook with sobs, that her tears were mad. If she had not killed it, she would have died in those great and dreadful rows of teeth, and it would not have been a pleasant death.
Yet for that illusion, I would have been ready to die....
She was crying for something that had never existed.
She was crying because it had never existed, and because, for her, it would never exist, not even in memory. After a long time, she stooped down and, from the mass that was melting like decaying seaweed, she picked up a fang with a chip out of it. She stood looking at it for a long time. Then, her lips tightening grimly, she flung it out to sea, and clambered back into the boat. As she sculled back to shore, she found she was listening to the sound in the waves, like a shell held to the ear. And when she realized that she was listening again for another voice, she began to sing the rowdiest drinking song she knew.
The Wandering Lute
In the glass bowl the salamander hissed blue fire. Lythande bent over the bowl, extending numbed white fingers; the morning chill at Old Gandrin nipped nose and fingers. At a warning hiss from the bowl, the magician stepped back, looking questioningly at the young candlemaker.
“Does he bite?”
“Her name is Alnath,” Eirthe said. “She usually doesn’t need to.”
“Allow me to beg her pardon,” Lythande said. “Essence of Fire, may I borrow your warmth?”
Fire streamed upward; Lythande bent gratefully over the bowl; Alnath coiled within, a miniature dragon, flames streaming upward from the fire elemental’s substance.
“She likes you,” said Eirthe. “When Prince Tashgan came here, she hissed at him and the silk covering of his lute began to smolder; he went out faster than he came in.”
The hood of the mage-robe was thrown back, and by the light of the fire streaming upward, the Blue Star could be clearly seen on Lythande’s high, narrow forehead.
Tashgan? I know him only by reputation,” Lythande said, “Will you enjoy living in a palace, Eirthe? Will Her Brilliance adapt kindly to a bowl of jewels and diamonds?”
Eirthe giggled, for Prince Tashgan was known throughout Old Gandrin as a womanizer. “He was looking for you, Lythande. How do you feel about life in a palace?”
“For me? What need could the prince have of a mercenary-magician?
“Perhaps.” Eirthe said, “he wishes to take music lessons.” She nodded at the lute slung across the magician’s shoulder. “I have heard Tashgan play at three summer-festivals, and he plays not half so well as you. The lute is not his best instrument.” She giggled, with a suggestive roll of her eyes.
Lythande enjoyed a raunchy joke as well as anyone; the magician’s mellow chuckle filled the room. “It is freq
uently so with those who take up the lute for pleasure. As for those who wear a crown, who can tell them their playing could be bettered, whatever the instrument? Flattery ruins much talent.”
“Tashgan wears no crown, nor ever will,” Eirthe said. “The High-lord of Tschardain had three sons—know you not the story?”
“Is he the third son of Tschardain? I had heard he was in exile,” Lythande said, “but I have only passed briefly through Tschardain.”
“The old King had a stroke, seven years ago; while he lingered, paralyzed and unable to speak, his older son assumed the power; his second son became his brother’s adviser and marshal of his armies. Tashgan was, they said, weak, absentminded, and a womanizer; I daresay it was only that the young Lord wanted few claimants to challenge his position.”
She bent to rummage briefly under her worktable and pulled out a silk-wrapped bundle. “Here are the candles you ordered. Remember that they’re spelled not to burn unless they’re in one of Cadmon’s glasses—though you can probably find a counter-spell easily enough.”
“One of Cadmon’s glasses I have already.” Lythande took the candles, but lingered, close to the salamander’s heat. Eirthe glanced at the lute on an embroidered leather band across Lythande’s shoulder.
She asked, “Were you magician first or minstrel? It seems a strange combination.”
“I was musician from childhood,” Lythande said, “and when I took up magic I deserted my first love. But the lute is a forgiving mistress.” The magician bestowed the packet of candles in one of the concealed pockets in the dark mage-robe, bowed in courtly fashion to Eirthe, and murmured to the salamander, “Essence of Fire, my thanks for your warmth.”
A streamer of cobalt fire surged upward out of the bowl; leaped to Lythande’s outstretched hand. Lythande did not flinch as the salamander perched for a moment on the slender wrist, though it left a red mark. Eirthe whistled faintly in surprise.
“She never does that to strangers!” The girl glanced at the callus on her own wrist where the salamander habitually rested.
“She is like a were-dragon made small in appearance.” Hearing that, Alnath hissed again, stretching out her long fiery neck, and as Eirthe watched in astonishment, Lythande stroked the flaming scales. “Perhaps she knows we are kindred spirits; she is not the first fire-elemental I have known,” said the magician. “A good part of the business of an adept is playing with fire. There, fair Essence of the purest of all Elements, go to your true Mistress.” Lythande raised an arm in a graceful gesture; streamers of fire seared the air as Alnath flashed toward Eirthe’s wrist and came to rest there. “Should Tashgan seek me again, tell him I lodge at the Blue Dragon.”
But Lythande saw Prince Tashgan before Eirthe did.
The Adept was seated in the common-room of the Blue Dragon, a pot of ale untouched on the table—for one of the many vows fencing the powers of an Adept of the Blue Star was that they might never be seen to eat or drink before strangers. Nevertheless, the pot of ale was the magician’s unquestioned passport to sit among the townsfolk and listen to whatever might be happening among them.
“Will you favor us with a song, High-born?” asked the innkeeper. The Pilgrim Adept uncovered the lute and began to play a ballad of the countryside. As the soft notes stole into the room, the drinkers fell silent, listening to the mellow sound of Lythande’s voice, soft, neutral, and sexless.
As the last note died away, a tall, richly clad man, standing at the back of the room, came forward. “Master Minstrel, I salute you,” he said. “I had heard from afar of your skill with the lute and came here a little before my proper season, to hear you play and—other things. You lodge here? Might I buy you a drink in privacy, Magician? I have heard that your services are for hire; I have need of them.”
“I am a mercenary magician,” Lythande said, “I give no instruction on the lute.”
“Nevertheless let us discuss in private whether if would be worth your while to give me lessons,” said the man. “I am Tashgan, son of Idriash of Tschardain.”
Some of the watchers in the room had the uneasy sense that the Blue Star on Lythande’s brow shrugged itself and focused to look at Tashgan. Lythande said, “So be it. Before the final battle of Law and Chaos many unusual things may come to pass, and for all I know this may well be one of them.”
“Will it please you to speak in your chamber, or in mine?”
“Let it be in yours,” said Lythande. The items with which any person chose to surround himself could often give the magician an important clue to character; if this prince was to be a client—for the services of magician or minstrel—such clues might prove valuable.
~o0o~
Tashgan had commanded the most luxurious chamber at the Blue Dragon; its original character had almost been obscured by silken hangings and cushions. Elegant small musical instruments—a tambour adorned with silk ribbons, a bodhran, a pair of serpent rattles, and a gilded sistrum—hung on the wall. As the door opened, a slight girl in a chemise, arms bare and hair loosened and falling in a disheveled cloud over her bared young breasts, rolled from the bed and scurried away behind the hangings. Lythande’s face drew together into a frown of distaste.
“Charming, is she not?” asked Tashgan negligently. “A local maiden; I want no permanent ties in this town. Indeed, it is of ties of this sort—undesired ties, and involuntary—that I would speak. Lissini, bring wine from my private stock.”
The girl poured wine; Lythande formally lifted the cup without, however, tasting it, and bowed to Tashgan.
“How may I serve your Excellency?”
“It is a long story.” Tashgan unfastened the strap of the lute across his shoulder. “What think you of this lute?” His weak, watery blue eyes followed the instrument as he undid the case and displayed it.
Lythande studied the instrument briefly; smaller than Lythande’s own lute, exquisitely crafted of fruitwood inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
“I remember not one so fairly crafted since I came into this country.”
“Appearances are deceiving,” said Tashgan. “This instrument, magician, is at once my curse and my blessing.”
“May I?” Lythande put forth a slender hand and touched the delicately fretted neck. The blue star blazed suddenly, and Lythande frowned.
“This lute is under enchantment. This is the long story of which you spoke. The night is young; long live the night. Tell on.”
Tashgan signaled to the girl to pour more of the fragrant wine. “Know you what it is to be a third son in a royal line, magician?”
Lythande only smiled enigmatically. Royal birth in a faraway country was a claim made by many rogues and wandering magicians; Lythande never made such a claim. “It is your story, Highness.”
“A second son insures the succession and may serve as counselor to the first, but after my elder brothers were safely past childhood ailments, my royal parents knew not what to do with this inconvenient third prince. Had I been a daughter, they could have schooled me for a good marriage, but a third son? Only a possible pretender for factions or a rebel against his brethren. So they cast about to give my life some semblance of purpose, and had me instructed in music.”
“There are worse fates,” murmured Lythande. “In many lands a minstrel holds honor higher than a prince.”
“It is not so in Tschardain,” Tashgan gestured for more wine. Lythande lifted the glass and inhaled the delicate bouquet of the wine, without, however, touching or tasting it.
Tashgan went on: “It is not so in Tschardain; therefore I came to Old Gandrin where a minstrel has his own honor. For many years my life has assumed its regular character; guested in the spring on the borders of Tschardain, then northward into Old Gandrin for fair time, and northerly through the summer, to Northwander. Then at the summer’s height I turn southward again, through Old Gandrin, retracing my steps, guested and welcomed as a minstrel in castle and manor and at last, for Yule-feast, to Tschardain. There I am welcomed for a hand-span of days by
father and brothers. So it has been for twelve years, since I was only a little lad; it changed nothing when my father the High-lord was laid low by a stroke and my brother Rasthan assumed his powers. It seemed that it would go on for a lifetime, till I grew too old to threaten my brother’s throne or the throne of his sons.”
“It sounds not too ill a life,” Lythande observed neutrally.
“Not so indeed,” said Tashgan, with a lascivious roll of his eyes. “Here in Old Gandrin, a musician is highly favored, as indeed you did say, and when I am guested in castle and manor—well, I suppose ladies tire of queendom, and a musician who can give them lessons on his instrument—” another suggestive wink and roll of his eyes—“Well, master magician and minstrel, you too bear a lute, I dare say you too could tell tales, if you would, of how women give hospitality to a minstrel.”
The blue star on Lythande’s brow furrowed again with hidden distaste; the magician said only, “Is there, then, some reason why it cannot go on as you willed it?”
“Say rather as my father and my brother Rasthan willed it,” said Tashgan. “They took no chances that I would choose to stay more than my appointed hand of days every year in Tschardain. My father’s court magician made for me this lute, and set it about with enchantments, so that my wanderings with the lute would bring me never, for instance, into the country of any noble who might be plotting against Tschardain’s throne, or allow me to linger long enough anywhere to make alliances. Day by day, season by season and year by year, my rounds are as duly set as the rising of sun and moon or the procession of solstice following equinox and back again to solstice; a week here, ten days there, three days in this place and a fortnight in that... I cannot tarry in any place beyond my allotted span, for the compulsion in the lute sets me to wandering again.”
“And so?”
“And so for many years it was not unwelcome,” said Tashgan, “among other things—well, it freed me from the fear that any of those women—” yet once more the suggestive roll of the watery eyes—“would entrap me for more than a little—dalliance. But three moons ago, a messenger from Tschardain reached me. A were-dragon came from the south, and both my brothers perished in his flame. So that I, with no training or inclination to rule, am suddenly the High-lord’s only heir—and my father may die at any moment, or linger for another hand of years as a paralyzed figurehead. My father’s vizier has bidden me return at once to Tschardain and claim my heritage.”
The Complete Lythande Page 13
