Magic in Ithkar

by Andre Norton

  “Even the spirits are drawn to Ithkar Fair,” the champion said, all in a soft rush, as if he had at last found someone he could talk to. “This fair draws all to it, best and worst. . . . We walked here side by side all the long way, the steed and I. He is limping worse than ever now. I wish I could have carried him, for he carried me many a sore time.”

  Kam had placed one hand on the horse’s flank and the other on the hot and tender hock, and he stood puzzled and distraught. “Lord,” he said, “I cannot feel him.”

  The youth smiled quizzically. “He’s solid enough.”

  “Yes, but I mean—I cannot feel his being, his . . .” Kam did not know the word for “essence,” but he knew horses, their shying, their slobber, their passions—for grass and home and each other, their oblique thoughts, their fears—his body bore the half-circle moonlike marks of their hooves. And he knew that what stood so tamely under his hand was not horse as he understood it.

  “What is he?” Kam asked.

  “All.” Now it was the prince who fumbled with words. “The . . . greatness, the majesty of . . . all such horses, as I am . . . of men ”

  Kam closed his eyes, tried to remember the tales he had heard as a boy, tales of a golden time of high court and high courage, long-ago when the Three ruled. . . . None of them came clear, but a sort of vision drifted to mind of the steed that bore the champion joyously across the countryside, that lent its weight to the blow of his lance, that took him curvetting out of the hands of the enemy—under his touch the great kingly destrier stirred, lifted his lovely head, and softly whinnied.

  “Yes!” It was the prince, an excited whisper.

  Kam placed both hands on the hock, embracing the injured part with their warmth, and let the -magic come. “Lordly Ones,” he whispered, “Lordly Ones on your seven pillars of cloud white as pearl, white as moonlight, white as white gold, help me . . . .”

  It shot through him with javelin force. He heard and felt that the charger reared up with a great neigh, and he felt the prince catch him as he fell backward, strong arms and warm, but he could see nothing, and in a moment he knew nothing more.

  He awoke some hours later to bright sunlight and the unwelcome sight of a fair-ward standing over him, scowling under the shadow of his brass helmet.

  “Up, horseleech, and come with me,” the fair-ward ordered.

  Kam did not get up. He felt far too weak. Instead, he looked around him. He lay on a pile of straw in an unfamiliar place—where were his blankets? A half-grown urchin stood nearby, and a nice-looking shaggy gray pony with thick mane on a well-arched neck. Dapple gray—or was the gray mostly dirt?

  “Caught red-handed,” the fair-ward grumbled, prodding him with his bronze-shod quarterstaff.

  Kam struggled to a sitting position. “What is the charge?” he asked.

  “Magic! When I came by here yesterday that pony was spavined so bad ye could see it with no eyes. Today it’s sound. Get up.”

  The news rather than the order brought Kam scrambling to his feet. The urchin faced him at the pony’s side, unsmiling. A curly-headed, freckle-faced lad, his hair sun-bleached nearly as white as tow, he stood no higher than Kam’s chest. But his eyes, startlingly dark, looked merry and wise and very old. Struck in his belt he wore a long stick.

  “Come along,” the fair-ward said, and Kam went without a word.

  The priest who heard the case was young, golden-robed, newly shaven of head, and newly cynical since having become privy to the inner workings of the temple. He regarded Kam impatiently.

  “Have you any defense?”

  Penalties for the use of magic were severe. Kam could be declared outlaw, lose his home and possessions and his rights as a freeman. Most practitioners resolved this matter with a simple bribe, for the priests were mercenary. Kam had no bribe and no defense except the truth.

  “The champion ...” No, it would not be truth to say that the prince had made him do it. The healing had been Kam’s gift of the heart. “The Lordly Ones empowered me to help the horse.”

  “Pony,” the fair-ward corrected.

  The priest sighed hugely. Ai, the credulousness of these peasants! Would they never learn anything other than their literal-minded, superstitious beliefs? Still, the man was evidently not a shyster or a sneaking wizard. Even the fair-ward admitted that Kam had a reputation for honesty.

  “If I let off everyone who spoke of the Three,” the priest said rather sharply, “the fair would be topheavy with trickery, shoddy wares sold under a veil of glamour.”

  Kam glanced up from where he had been studying his large toes. “Well, if it is trickery to heal a suffering beast,” he said just as sharply, “then I stand guilty.”

  “There is a need for codification of these matters of healing,” the priest grumbled, more to himself than to Kam. The problem was irksome, and he had not had his morning pastry. He decided to delay judgment.

  “We’ll see if you have anything more to say after a night down below,” he told Kam, and waved a slender hand in dismissal.

  “Down below” turned out to be a cell with chains and shackles and nothing to eat. Kam sat there disconsolately through the day and into the night. But when moonlight began to make its way through the single high window, Kam felt misery leave him, to be replaced by a quite unreasonable hope. He watched as, the moon traveling toward its setting, pale shafts of light inched nearer and nearer to him. At last, just as he had known they must, they touched the shackles on his wrists—

  And the chains fell apart with a faint silvery clink, and invisible hands helped Kam to his feet. Utterly astonished in spite of his hope—for it is one thing to expect the impossible, and another thing to see it happen—Kam let himself be led through a moonstruck and unlocked door and a maze of temple catacombs to a seldom used entry that opened dustily before him. Moonlight fell on cobbles outside, and the prince out of the past and the steed of all steeds awaited him as before.

  “Why do you not ride?” Kam asked anxiously. “Is the horse not well?”

  “Well and whole. You ride. You must be weak. Have they beaten you?”

  “No.” Kam was touched but not surprised by the concern in the champion’s voice. “Thank you, my lord, but I need not ride. I can’t, anyway. I—I have never sat a horse.”

  “Never, and you all your life a horseleech?” The marvel of that smile in the moonlight. “Well, I am blithe indeed that you are not outlawed or hurt. Let us walk together, if you will not ride.”

  They set off companionably toward the outer sector of the fair enclave, where drunkards brawled and peacocks shrieked and jugglers and horses were lodged, horses for sale, trained performing horses, pack horses and saddle horses, Kam’s love and livelihood. As they walked the most wondrous horse he had ever seen walked freely beside him, its hooves chiming against the cobbles, with not a trace of a limp.

  But the prince limped. Of course, the wound in the thigh. “Are there no leeches for you at Ithkar Fair?” Kam asked.

  “Not such a healer as you, goodman.” The prince smiled again. “Never mind. The steed will carry me.”

  He made ready to ride when they reached Kam’s small campsite. He needed the height of a wagon-bed to help him vault to the horse’s back. Before he climbed up, Kam took courage to ask him something ignoble.

  “Lord—will there be a fair-ward awaiting me with the dawn?”

  The prince genuinely laughed, a ringing, lovely sound. “Nay, I think not,” he declared when he was done. “The priest has had a difficult night, and some of his notions have been shaken. He is not a bad sort, you know, really.”

  “Or he would not have given me a second thought.”

  “Yes. I think you will find he will be glad enough to let you be.”

  Once again it was the quietest hour of night. The moon was nearly down. The youth sprang to his steed.

  “Farewell, goodman Kam,” he said, and with a touch he started to turn the marvelous mount away. Then he turned back and stretched out a
silver-ringed hand. “I have no payment to offer you, and I have not even told you—many thanks.”

  Those eyes, deep pools of shadow . . . Half in fear and half in longing, Kam ardently wished that he could see those eyes more clearly.

  “You have made me rich,” he replied. “My lord ...”

  “What is it?”

  “Who—what lad are you by day? In the light of the sun?”

  “Helpless yet, but all hope, unwounded. The prince that will be.”

  “Ah.” It was a sigh of fulfillment. “Call on me, champion,” Kam said.

  “I will. Kam . . . farewell.”

  They touched hands, and then he was gone, the sound of his charger’s hooves ringing away rapidly in the night. He would make good speed before sunrise.

  When even the sound had left him, Kam turned and looked skyward. At the horizon the jewel of white fire that was the moon dipped and sank. Kam felt oddly alone, he who always came alone to Ithkar Fair.

  “Prince that will be,” he murmured. “And may that day come soon.”

  Cold Spell

  Elisabeth Waters

  “I strongly suggest, young woman, that you consider my proposition carefully. My friendship with your late father will not protect you from my wrath if you do not cooperate.” Garak glared angrily at Eirthe, and she glared right back at him. After a moment he abandoned his attempt to stare her down, as she had known he would, and left, swirling his black wizard’s cape around him as he stalked off through the fair.

  She sighed as she turned back to the tapers she was dipping. Her father had taught her well when it came to candlemaking, but he hadn’t thought to teach her how to handle Garak. He and Garak had been drinking companions during the fair in previous years, but Garak had always treated Eirthe as part of the furnishings of the candlemaker’s booth. Now, however, her father was dead, and Eirthe was the candlemaker. And she didn’t think that she’d care to take Garak, with the hasty temper and pride that covered his incompetence as a wizard, as a drinking companion ... or any other kind of companion, either. Frowning, she jerked the candles out of the caldron, splashing hot wax into the fire below. The fire responded with a surprisingly loud hiss.

  “I’m sorry, Alnath,” Eirthe hastily apologized as a patch of red-gold flame moved to another part of the fire and regarded her with unblinking eyes.

  “You should be,” the salamander replied. “Even overlooking the fact that you’re splashing wax on me. You’re going to ruin those tapers. You know that they have to be dipped smoothly and evenly.”

  “I certainly should know; Father told me often enough. I wish he were here to cope with Garak.”

  “Why? What’s that blustering fool up to now?” Alnath separated herself from the fire and came to rest on the back of Eirthe’s left wrist. Since this was her habitual perch when she condescended to leave her home in the fire, Eirthe had long since become accustomed to the heat on her skin and no longer found it particularly painful. Her hands were always a mess from hot wax and heavy caldrons anyway. She reached out a callused finger and scratched Alnath gently behind the ear.

  “He wants me to make some people candles for him.”

  “Why not? After all, you are the best candlemaker in the fair. Probably even better than your father was—your candles are more alive.”

  “True,” Eirthe said grimly, “and that’s exactly why Garak wants them—in die likenesses of the richest merchants in the fair. If I put enough life into them in the making, even he will be able to bind them to the people they resemble.”

  “You mean using the law of similarity? I suppose he could. He does have some magical ability, though not much. But what would he gain by it?”

  “Remember the old goldsmith who died last year, near the end of the fair? I know father made a candle of him, but it disappeared. Three nights later the goldsmith burned to death in his bed, and it is said that the blankets weren’t even charred. And after that, Garak had quite a bit of money for a mendicant wizard. I think he’s running a protection racket.”

  “What are you going to do about it? Denounce him to the fair-court?”

  “Using what for proof? That was nearly a year ago, and the people who actually knew anything aren’t going to want to remember. But I’m not going to make candles for him, no matter what he offers me. I don’t need more wealth than I have—especially if it makes me a target for every greedy man around. I’d go mad in luxury with nothing useful to do. I can only wear one dress at a time, sleep in one wagon, and eat and drink as much as will fit in my stomach. And I like making candles. Garak is badly mistaken if he thinks he can turn my head with promises of great riches.”

  “Unfortunately, he’s likely to try to harm you if you don’t do what he wants.”

  “Oh, he was making dire, if unspecified, threats when he left. But we both know that his magic isn’t up to much. He’ll be furious with me, but he’ll probably bluster it out and go away, just like he did today.”

  “He’ll be back.”

  “So will the Three Lordly Ones.” Eirthe chuckled.

  “Seriously, he’ll come back tomorrow, I’ll tell him I won’t do it, he’ll mouth gibberish at me and make dire predictions about all the terrible things that will befall me, and then he’ll stalk off, the very picture of a mortally offended wizard, and life will go on.”

  “You’re probably right.” Alnath shrugged herself off Eirthe’s wrist and back into the fire. “If you want to finish that batch of tapers today, you’d better get back to work.”

  Garak showed up again the next day around midafternoon, all dressed up to intimidate. With his black robe covering his paunch and the hood pulled forward to shadow his face, he actually did look rather imposing. But there are certain difficulties inherent in an attempt to intimidate the daughter of one’s drinking companion: it is necessary for her to forget all the times she has seen you slouched on a bench leaning against the side of the wagon, with wine dribbling down your beard and staining your robe. Eirthe was not obliging enough to forget that, and that was the vision which superimposed itself over Garak’s shrouded form. Great wizard indeed, she thought.

  “Well, young woman?” Garak intoned. “Have you come to your senses?”

  “I have never been out of them,” Eirthe replied calmly, “and no, I will not make candles for you. Go and play your games by yourself; I’m not interested.” She hung the tapers she was holding on the rack and reached for the next batch, confident that Garak would bluster and then leave if she simply ignored him. With that firmly in mind, she concentrated on her work, not noticing what happened next.

  Garak drew himself up to his full height, which was about the same as Eirthe’s, and began to chant in some unknown language while waving his hands about in what were presumably magical gestures. Eirthe continued to dip tapers with a steady rhythm, but several passersby stopped to stare.

  Suddenly she heard a warning hiss from the fire, where Alnath watched. Sneaking a glance out of the corner of her eye at Garak, she saw him shiver, as if a wind passed through him from head to feet. What’s wrong? she thought at Alnath.

  Alnath’s reply formed in her head. He’s invoking Thotharn—and the god is answering. Alnath sounded uneasy, and Eirthe, remembering the stories she had heard of this alien god, did not feel able to offer any reassurance.

  But why should the god answer him? Eirthe protested. He’s not a priest.

  Maybe he’s a tool. But Thotharn is definitely with him. Alnath paused, listening. He’s putting a cold curse on you, saying that your candles will never burn, your fire will go out— The fire went out, and Alnath’s scream split Eirthe’s head apart as she blacked out.

  Her head hurt dreadfully, and she was lying on the ground. Eirthe cautiously opened her eyes. Garak was gone, but so was Alnath, and her fire was still out. She dragged herself painfully to her feet and fetched the tinderbox from the wagon, but her attempts to rekindle the fire were unsuccessful; she couldn’t get so much as a spark from the flints.
The wax in the caldron was still liquid, so she hastily poured it into a storage crock. There was no point in adding to her misery the task of having to chip out an entire caldron full of hardened wax.

  She looked at the surrounding booths, wondering what the neighboring craftsmen had made of the incident. From the determined way in which they all carried on their normal business while being careful not to look in her direction, she gathered that they had all decided it was safer to ignore the whole mess. Well, she couldn’t blame them for that. She wished she could do the same.

  She picked up the tapers she had been working on, which were near enough done to use anyway, and retreated to the privacy of her wagon to take stock. Garak had said that her fire would go out and her candles would not burn. Her fire was out all right, but she wasn’t going to take his word for anything. But her efforts to light the tapers she held were unsuccessful, and when she tried to light one of the molded images of the Three Lordly Ones she had made several days earlier, it wouldn’t light, either.

  “That’s wonderful,” she muttered. “Just what I don’t need, a retroactive curse.”

  There was nothing she could do about the candles at the moment; she had enough money, so she didn’t need to worry about starving for a while, and her headache was wearing off. That left her free to worry about Alnath. She remembered hearing her scream just before she fainted, but she didn’t feel that Alnath was dead. She might be hurt, though, and in any case Eirthe was not about to abandon a creature that had been her best friend since early childhood. She would have to find her.

  “So how do I find a salamander? Start with fire; who uses fire?” Eirthe picked up her cloak and went out into the darkening twilight, trying not to think about all the fires that would be lit as the sun set.

  * * *

  Several hours later, well past suppertime, Eirthe purchased a meat pie from one of the food stalls and collapsed dejectedly on a nearby bench to eat it. It wasn’t exactly that she felt hungry, but she was cold and very, very tired, and she hoped that hot food might make her feel a little better. All she wanted to do was crawl back to her wagon, crawl into her bunk, and sleep for the rest of her life. Her head was hurting again after hours of wandering around calling Alnath, and there was still no sign of her. She wasn’t within range of the goldsmith, the silversmith, the armorers, the alchemists, or the herbalists, she wasn’t near the potter’s kiln, and she was nowhere in the vicinity of the bakers, cooks, and pastry chefs. Who else used fire?