Bradley, Marion Zimmer - SSC 03 (20 page)

 
          
Yet
Lythande was vowed to fight on the side of Law against Chaos till the Final
Battle should come. And if humankind could not
get its living
as did the other creatures inhabiting the world, what would become of them?

 
          
"Why
should they live by killing the fish in the sea?" the mermaid asked.
"Have they any better right to survive than the fish?"

 
          
That
was a question not all that easily answered. Yet as she glanced about the
shore, smelling the rankness of the tide, Lythande knew what she should say
next.

 
          
"You
live upon the fish, do you not? There are enough fish in the sea for all the
people of the shore, as well as for your kind. And if the fishermen do not kill
the fish and eat them, the fish will only be eaten by other fish. Why not leave
the fisherfolk in peace, to take what they need?"

 
          
"Well,
perhaps I will," said the mermaid, giggling again, so that Lythande was
again astonished; what a childish creature this was, after all. Did she even
know what harm she had done?

 
          
"Perhaps
I can find another place to go. Perhaps you could help me?" She raised her
large and luminous eyes to Lythande. "I heard you singing. Do you know any
new songs, magician? And will you sing them to me?"

 
          
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
seaweed 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 things 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, 1 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.

 
          
Once,
not too many years ago, Robert Adams and Andre Norton got together to do an
anthology about a magical world they called
The Fair at Ithkar.
The theory
seemed to me not unlike Thieves World, and so I created a Lythande story just
for Ithkar
—
but Adams Norton rejected
the story because, forsooth, Lythande was "associated with Thieves
World"
—
even though I had withdrawn
from Thieves World after the first
volume,
and for
all intents and purposes withdrawn Lythande too.

 
          
The
character
—
and her salamander
—
who introduces Lythande to this story is from the first
Ithkar volume, in a story called "Cold Spell," by Elisabeth Waters,
and her name and attributes are used by permission.

 
          
Lythande,
as we learned in "Somebody Else's Magic," is not as good at
unblnding-spells as she is at other kinds of magic. Maybe she needs more
detachment?

 
 
          
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 frequently 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 it 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.

 
          
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
borain,
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
North-wander. 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.