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.
About The Author
Lawrence Watt-Evans was born and raised in eastern Massachusetts, the fourth of six children. Both parents were longtime science fiction readers, so from an early age he read and enjoyed a variety of speculative fiction. He also tried writing it, starting at age seven, but with little immediate success.
After getting through twelve years of public schooling in Bedford, Massachusetts, he tried to keep up family tradition by attending Princeton University, as had his father and grandfather. He was less successful than his ancestors and, after two attempts, left college without a degree.
In between the two portions of his academic career, he lived in Pittsburgh, a city he considers one of the most underrated in the country. It was at this time that he began seriously trying to write for money, as it seemed easier than finding a real job (he had previously worked in a ladder factory, as a feature writer for a small-town newspaper, as a sandwich salesman on campus, in a supermarket, and at other trivial tasks). He sold one page of fiction in a year and a half.
In 1977, after leaving Princeton for the second and final time, he married his longtime girlfriend and settled in Kentucky, where his wife had a job that would support them both while he again tried to write. He was more successful this time, producing a fantasy novel that sold readily, beginning his full-time career as a writer.
He now lives in Gaithersburg, Maryland.
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