The Book of Magic

by George R. R. Martin

  “Be patient,” Loft said. “If we have sex now, your children would be small and weak. Wait till I am strong. I’m sure I’ll get fat with your good food.” Not if he could help it, he added in his mind. He would feed the boulder and remain thin.

  Several days passed. He always shared his food with the boulder, who was silent, as if thinking. Finally, it thanked him for the latest bowl of moss in milk, then said, “Stone does not obey you, but grass and fire do, and water might. I’ve heard that sorcerers can far-see in bowls of water. Find a mate for my daughter. Then she’ll be willing to let you go.”

  Loft took the bowl, which was empty now, and washed it in the cave’s pool. Then he filled it with the pool’s clear, cold water and cast a spell. The water became a mirror. He cast another spell and saw all of Iceland in the mirror: the bare, bony mountains; rushing rivers; green fields; and tiny farmhouses and churches. Four figures stood at the country’s corners: a bull in the west, a dragon in the east, and a hulking mountain troll in the south. The north had an animal that kept changing. First it was an eagle with a white tail, then a griffin, then an eagle again. Back and forth it went. These were the landvaettir, the four guardians of Iceland, as Loft knew.

  He gestured and spoke another spell. Tiny lights appeared all over the country. These were troll homes. Loft found his current place of confinement, then looked for lights nearby. There was only one: dim and flickering, as if about to go out. Hardly hopeful, but he gestured and spoke again.

  The image in the bowl changed. Now it showed a troll, a male, wearing nothing except a ragged loincloth. His skin was gray and pitted, his nose long and lumpy. Hair like straw hung over his shoulders. He was on a treadmill inside a metal cage, pacing and pacing, his expression grim. The treadmill powered stone wheels that ground grain into flour.

  A voice spoke in Loft’s mind:

  “Tread, tread,

  Grind our bread.

  Longnose, keep at it.

  Tread, tread,

  Grind our bread,

  Never stop and sit.”

  The cage was on a stone promontory high up in a huge cave, far larger than the one that held Loft prisoner. Stone and wood houses covered the floor of the cave. Lamps floated in the air above the houses, lighting them and the streets where handsome people walked. They were dressed in old-fashioned clothing with bright colors: red and green and yellow. Loft saw gold buckles, broaches, rings, and arm rings. These must be elves, he realized. No one in Iceland, even the Danish merchants and officials, looked this rich and fine.

  Loft rocked back on his heels, feeling despair. How could he take on elves?

  “Well?” asked the boulder. “What have you found?”

  He thought of lying and saying, “Nothing.” Instead, he picked up the bowl and carried it to the boulder, tilting it so the old troll could see. Because magic held it, the water did not spill out, but remained like glass or metal.

  “Fine, fine,” the boulder said. “A handsome young troll, and you know what’s said about noses.”

  “No,” said Loft.

  “A long nose means a big penis. He will keep my daughter happy—if you can find a way to rescue him from that cage.”

  “Why should I do it?”

  “As I told you, if she can find a proper husband, she will let you go. And I will have good trollish grandchildren, not strange half-breed humans.”

  Loft gestured. The mirror became water again and spilled from the bowl.

  He spent several days thinking. He had no desire to get involved with elves. But it seemed as if that was the only way to escape the troll maid.

  Finally, he showed the troll maid what he had found. She gazed entranced at the image in the bowl. “What a fine male! Look at that nose!”

  “If you let me go. I will travel to the elf home and free him, and you can have a proper husband.”

  “Nonsense. You will run off and leave me with nothing.” She gazed at the troll in the mirror. “What a nose! What a fine physique!”

  Loft spoke another spell. Iceland appeared in the mirror, guarded by its four guardians and edged with turbulent waves. The troll homes gleamed amid rumpled mountains. Loft pointed to the one that held the troll.

  “I know that place,” the troll maid said. “It’s two days from here, and there’s a cave midway between, where we can hide from the sun. But not now. It’s summer, and the nights are too short. We’ll have to wait till autumn.”

  This they did. The troll maid went out every night with her cow. Loft was careful to eat only a little of the food she provided, giving the rest to the boulder. In this way, he remained thin, while the boulder became more rounded. The troll maid did not notice. Her mind was on the troll prisoner and the children they would produce. Every day she looked at Loft’s mirror, admiring the male troll and talking about the offspring they would have.

  At last the maiden said, “The nights are long enough. We can make the journey.”

  Then, as the maid slept, Loft and the boulder spoke together.

  “Don’t betray my daughter,” the boulder said.

  “I won’t,” Loft said, though he was already thinking of ways to run off. Why should he care about the problems of trolls or anyone else?

  The next evening, the troll maid said, “It’s time to go.”

  Loft rose, feeling hopeful.

  “But I don’t trust you. You may escape, once we are out of the cave. I’m going to tie you up and gag you, so you can’t speak any spells.”

  “I won’t be able to walk,” Loft said.

  “I’ll carry you and move more quickly than you ever could.”

  What could Loft do? His magic would not work on her, and he was still too thin and weak to struggle. Even a strong man could not win against a troll.

  She tied him hand and foot and put a wad of cloth into his mouth. “Now you won’t be able to do any harm to me or anyone with your magic.”

  She gathered him in her strong, lumpy arms and carried him through the cave’s land door. Outside were darkness and a bright full moon, shining from the middle of a cloudless sky.

  She set off, running first through grassy fields and then over mountain paths and bare fields of lava. Snowy mountaintops shone like silver. In the valleys, glacial rivers rushed. Loft mumbled through his gag, trying to curse. No word got through. Rocked in the troll maid’s arms, he finally fell asleep.

  The troll maid stopped, and Loft woke. “We’re at our resting place,” she said and entered a pitch-black cave. Pale, predawn light glowed at the cave’s entrance. Otherwise, there was no illumination.

  “Do you need to pee?” she asked.

  He nodded. In spite of the cave’s darkness, she saw him and undid his bonds. He climbed to his feet, stiff and unsteady.

  “Pee at the entrance to the cave,” the troll maid said. “Don’t go any farther, or I will catch you and be angry.”

  He was in no condition to argue. He staggered to the cave’s entrance and undid his pants. The sky glowed to the east, but the sun was behind a peak. He pissed into shadows, feeling increasingly comfortable as the piss left him. This was the time to escape the troll maid, he thought as he refastened his pants.

  “Don’t think of it,” the troll maid called from inside the cave.

  Suddenly a man was next to him. Even in the darkness Loft could see him clearly. He was late middle age, with a clipped gray beard, dressed like a rich Danish merchant, though all his clothes were black. In one hand, he carried a gold-headed cane. Loft looked at him with dislike. He knew who the fellow was now. Not anyone he wanted to know.

  “I can help you escape,” the man said softly. He was speaking Icelandic, though with a foreign accent.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Then I’d be in debt to you. If I am clever, and I’ve always believed
I’m clever, I will be able to escape the troll. But no one escapes hell who does not have the book Redskin.”

  The man frowned angrily. “You are already in debt to me.”

  “If so, I want no further debt.”

  The troll maid’s hand came down heavily on Loft’s shoulder. “Are you plotting to escape?”

  The man was gone.

  “Only pissing,” Loft said.

  “Come in. The sun will be above that mountain in a moment.”

  He followed her into the cave. She tied him up again and gagged him, then lay down to sleep. He lay awake all day, too uncomfortable to sleep, while the maiden snored beside him. In the evening, she woke and gathered him up. She ran through the autumn night, lit by an almost full moon. Loft slept in her stony arms.

  He woke when she laid him down. “We’re at the door to the elf home. Conjure a way in.”

  Loft mumbled through the gag. The troll maid pulled it out. “What?”

  “Untie me. I need to pee.”

  “Very well,” said the troll maid. “But remember that I will keep a close eye on you. You can’t enchant me, any more than you can enchant the mountain Hekla, who pours out fire whenever she wants to; and I can chase you down.”

  If he’d been less stiff and achy, Loft might have made a run for it, casting spells behind him to slow the maid. But his mouth was sore from the gag, making it hard for him to say the spells properly; and he wasn’t sure he could run and cast spells at the same time. He turned his back on the maid and relieved himself.

  Overhead, the stars were fading. Maybe he could find a way to trick the maid into waiting till the sun was up. But no, the land around them was rough and craggy. She could find some corner to hide in. In addition, he remembered the man in black, who was almost certainly waiting for him in the shadows. He suspected the man would grab him, if he played any more malicious tricks. Though he did not understand why harming a troll should cause him harm. In any case, he had a plan.

  They stood next to a cliff, on which he had peed. He gestured magically and spoke a brief spell. The elf door became visible, its edges glowing and a dark stain on its middle.

  “How will we get in?” the troll maid asked.

  “Like this.” Loft picked up a stone and beat on the door, shouting, “Open up! Open up! I come with a challenge!”

  “What is that about?” the maid asked.

  “The easiest way to get through a door is to knock.”

  They waited. At last the door opened. A woman stood in front of them. Yellow light spilled around her. Her hair was long and golden, falling over her shoulders, and she wore an old-fashioned dress of green cloth. Her belt had a gold buckle, inset with amber.

  “That was rude,” she told them. “A gentle knock would have done.”

  “We didn’t know,” Loft said. He felt the troll’s hand, heavy on his shoulder.

  “What do you mean, when you offer a challenge?”

  “I am Loft, a famous human sorcerer, and I challenge your best magician to a contest.”

  “That would be my brother Alfbrand. What are the stakes?”

  “His stake will be the troll Longnose, who works at your mill.”

  “And your stake?”

  “This fine, strong troll maid standing next to me. If your brother wins, you’ll have two workers to grind your grain.”

  The troll maid’s grip tightened on his shoulder. “What are you saying?”

  “Be confident,” Loft said. “I will win.”

  “I do not want to pace on a treadmill.”

  “To win, you must take risks. Consider,” he told the elf woman. “With two trolls, you will be able to breed generations of slaves.”

  The grip on his shoulder tightened even more. The troll’s fingers pressed through his flesh and seemed ready to break a bone.

  Loft winced and groaned.

  “Come in,” the elf woman said. “I will tell Alfbrand about your offer.”

  For a moment, it seemed as if the troll maid would yank Loft back. Then her grip loosened, and she pushed him gently through the door.

  This was love, Loft thought. An emotion he had never felt.

  They entered a huge cave, filled with handsome elf-houses, built with wood as well as stone, though there was little wood in Iceland. These must date from the settlement times, when there were huge piles of driftwood on the island’s shores, pines from Norway that had floated to Iceland.

  Light shone from lanterns that floated above the houses. More light shone through windows and open doors. The elf woman led them down a street, past handsome elven folk who all looked at them with surprise. At length, they came to a house that was bigger than all the rest. The elf woman led them in. They found themselves in a long hall, with a fire pit running down the middle. The pit was full of ashes and coals that glowed red. Tendrils of smoke rose from the coals, twisting around carved house posts, then escaped through a hole in the roof.

  This was very ancient, it seemed to Loft, and very rich.

  At the end of the hall was a high seat. A large, fat elf sat there. He was dressed in green with high, soft, red boots. His belly bulged over a wide belt with a gold buckle. “What’s this?” he asked.

  “This human has challenged you to a magical contest,” the elf woman said and explained the terms.

  “Good enough,” said the elf man. “I’m willing to earn another slave for our community.”

  The troll maid’s grip tightened on Loft’s shoulder. “Be confident,” he whispered.

  “Invite our neighbors to see the contest,” the fat elf said.

  The elf woman left. The elf man—Alfbrand—left his seat and strolled down the hall to Loft, who was shaking now. Everything about the elf spoke of wealth and power. Loft was willing to lose the contest. That was one way to escape the troll maid. But he wasn’t sure what other consequences there might be.

  “Young, aren’t you?” Alfbrand said in a tone of contempt. “And thin and pale. Entirely unimpressive. The troll girl will go onto a treadmill after this is done. I need to decide what to do with you. Maybe I’ll turn you into a mounting block, as the Persian king did with the Roman emperor in ancient times. Though you don’t seem solid enough.”

  Loft did not answer. His mouth was dry.

  “Come along,” Alfbrand said. “We’ll hold our contest in the town square. There’s room enough for everyone to see my triumph.”

  Loft followed the elf, the troll maid beside him, still holding on to his shoulder.

  The square was a wide space paved with pumice gravel. Elf people were gathering in it, all of them tall and handsome and dressed in fine clothing, mostly green. On the promontory above them, Longnose paced and paced, grinding grain.

  “I’d like a drink of water,” Loft said.

  Alfbrand made an imperious summoning motion. An elf girl came with a flask. Loft drank deeply, enjoying the cold, fresh water. Then he offered the flask to the troll maid. She took it and drank.

  “Now,” said Alfbrand and spoke strange words in a loud, harsh voice.

  All at once the space between them was filled with huge figures. One was a bull, snorting with anger. The second was a dragon that twisted and hissed. The third was a hulking mountain troll, dressed in skins and carrying a club. Last of all was a creature that kept changing, being sometimes a griffin and sometimes an eagle. It seemed to Loft they were all hazy at the edges, as if they were not entirely real or not entirely in this place.

  Loft knew them at once: the landvaettir, the spirits that were guardians of Iceland. And he knew what to do about them. He gestured and spoke a changing spell.

  The bull turned into a calf, bawling for its mother. The troll turned into a baby, waving its arms and crying. The griffin turned into a small bird that flew in a circle above them, making a whistling call. Last of all, Lof
t turned to the dragon and gestured. It shrank into a snake, which amazed everyone, since there were no snakes in Iceland. Before it could flee, Loft stepped on it, crushing its head.

  “Not bad,” Alfbrand said. “Though I don’t know how Iceland is going to survive, bereft of its guardians.”

  “I’ll worry about that later,” Loft replied.

  “Now, show me what you can do,” the elf man said.

  Loft paused for a moment, gathering his forces. He was no longer afraid. Instead, he was terrified. But he knew summoning spells worked here, and he made the most powerful summoning he knew, chanting loudly and waving his hands madly, putting all his skill and power into the enchantment.

  Four new figures appeared in the space between him and Alfbrand. One was Bishop Gottskalk the Cruel, holding Redskin tightly against his chest and looking around angrily. The other three were the crowned bishops he had summoned before by mistake. This time he wanted them. Two of the bishops held crosiers made of wood with finely carved, curling tops made of ivory. Walrus ivory, most likely. The light their crowns shed made halos around their heads. Loft realized who they were: Iceland’s two saints, Jon and Thorlak. They had stern, serious, unforgiving expressions; and Gottskalk cringed away from them. But the cruel bishop could not escape them. They stood on either side of him, hemming him in.

  The third crowned bishop had a mild expression, and his crown cast no halo. His crosier was iron, bottom to top.

  “I couldn’t find a good enough piece of wood,” he said to Loft. “So I asked a smith to make me a crosier of iron. It doesn’t break, and godless folk don’t like it.”

  Loft noticed that the elf folk were drawing away. Even Alfbrand looked worried. The troll maid had let go of his shoulder and stepped back as well.

  “What kind of trouble have you gotten in this time, lad?” the kind-looking bishop said. Loft recognized him: Gudmund the Good Arason, who had driven the trolls from most of the island of Drangey.

  Nothing to do except explain. He told his story to Gudmund.

  When he finished, Gudmund said, “As the trolls told me at Drangey, everyone needs a place to live in peace. For this reason, I left some of the cliffs at Drangey unblessed, and trolls still live there. They may not be the best of neighbors, but they are not the worst.