Bradley, Marion Zimmer - SSC 03 (21 page)

 
          
"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."

 
          
Tashgan
slammed his hand with rage on the table, making the lute rattle and the ribbons
tremble.

 
          
"And
I cannot! The enchantment of this accursed lute compels me northward, even to
Northwander! If I set out southward to my kingdom, I am racked with queasiness
and pain, I can stomach neither food nor wine, nor can I even look on a woman
with pleasure till I have set off in the appointed direction for the time of
year. I can go nowhere save upon my appointed rounds, for this damnable
enchanted lute compels me!"

 
          
Lythande's
tall narrow body shook with laughter, and Tashgan's ill-natured scowl fixed
itself upon the Adept.

 
          
"You
laugh at my curse, magician?"

 
          
"Everything
under the sun has a funny side," Lythande said, and struggled to control
unseemly laughter. "Bethink yourself, my prince; had this happened to another,
would you not find it funny?"

 
          
Tashgan's
eyes narrowed to slits, but finally he grinned weakly and said, "I fear
so. But if it was your predicament, magician, would you laugh?"

 
          
Lythande
laughed again. "I fear not, highness. And that says much about what folk
call amusement. So now tell me; how can I serve you?"

 
          
"Is
it not obvious from my tale? Take this enchantment off the lute!" Lythande
was silent, and Tashgan leaned forward in his chair, demanding aggressively,
"Can
you take off such a binding-spell, magician?"

 
          
"Perhaps
I can, if the price is right, highness," Lythande said slowly. "But
why put yourself at the mercy of a stranger, a mercenary magician? Surely the
court magician who obliged your father would be more than happy to ingratiate
himself with his new monarch by freeing you from this singularly inconvenient
spell."

 
          
"Surely,"
Tashgan said glumly, "but there is one great difficulty in that. The
wizard whom I have to
thank
—
"
he weighted the word with another of his ill-natured scowls
—
"was Ellifanwy."

 
          
"Oh."
Ellifanwy's messy end in the lair of a were-dragon was known from Northwander
to the
Southron
Sea
. Lythande said, "I
knew Ellifanwy of old. I told Ellifanwy that she could not handle any
were-dragon and proffered my services for a small fee, but she begrudged the
gold. And now she lies charred in the caves of the dragonswamp."

 
          
"I
am not surprised," said Tashgan, "I am sure you will agree with me
that women have no business with the High Magic. Small magics, yes, like love
charms
—
and I must say Ellifanwy's
love charms were superb," he added, preening himself like a peacock.
"But for dragons and such, I think you will agree with me, seeing
Ellifanwy's fate, that female wizards should mind their cauldrons and spin love
charms."

 
          
Lythande
did not answer, leaning forward to take up the lute. Again the lightning from
the Blue Star on the magician's brow glared in the room.

 
          
"So
you would have me undo Ellifanwy's spell? That should present no trouble,"
Lythande said, caressing the lute; slender fingers strayed for a moment over
the strings. "What fee will you give?"

 
          
"Ah,
there lies the problem," said Tashgan, "I have but little gold; the
messenger who brought news of the deaths of my brothers expected to be richly rewarded,
and I have lived mostly as guest for these many years; given all I could
desire, rich food and rich clothing, wine and women, but little in the way of
ready money. But if you will unbind this spell, I shall reward you well when
you come to Tschardain
—
"

 
          
Lythande
smiled enigmatically. "I am well acquainted with the gratitude of kings,
highness." Tashgan would hardly wish Lythande's presence in Tschardain,
able to tell his future subjects of their new high-lord's former ridiculous
plight. "Some other way must be found."

 
          
The
magician's hands lingered for a moment on Tashgan's lute. "I have taken a
fancy to your lute, highness, binding-spell and all. I have long desired to
travel to Northwander. But I do not know the way. Do I assume correctly that this
lute will keep its bearer on the direct path?"

 
          
Tashgan
said sourly, "No native guide could do better. Should I ever stray from
the path, as I have done once or twice after too much hospitality, the lute
would bring me back within a few dozen paces. It is like being a child again,
clinging to a nanny's hand!"

 
          
"It
sounds intriguing," Lythande murmured. "I lost the only lute which
meant anything to me in
—
shall we say, a magical
encounter
—
and had little ready money
with which to replace it; but the one I bear now has a fine tone. Exchange
lutes with me, noble Tashgan, and I shall travel to Northwander, and deal with
the unbinding-spell at my leisure."

 
          
Tashgan
hesitated only a moment. "Done," he said, ' and picked up Lythande's
plain lute, leaving the magician to put the elaborate inlaid one, with its
interlaced designs of mother-of-pearl, into its leather case. "I leave for
Tschardain at dawn. May I offer you another cup of wine, magician?"

 
          
Lythande
politely declined, and bowed to Tashgan for leave to withdraw.

           
"So you will travel to
Northwander on my circuit of castle and court? They will welcome you, magician.
Good fortune." Tashgan chuckled, with a suggestive roll of his eyes.
"There are many ladies bored with ladylike accomplishments. Give my love
to Beauty."

 
          
"Beauty?"

 
          
"You
will meet her
—
and many others
—
if you follow my lute very far," said Tashgan, licking
his lips. "I almost envy you, Lythande; you have not had time to become
wearied of their
—
friendly devices. But,"
he added, this time with a frank leer, "no doubt there are many new
adventures awaiting me in my father's courts."

 
          
"I
wish you joy of them," said Lythande, bowing gravely. On the stairs, the
magician resolved that when the sun rose, Old Gandrin would be far behind.
Tashgan might not wish anyone surviving who could tell this tale. True, he had
seemed grateful; but Lythande had reason to distrust the gratitude of kings.

 
          
Northward
from Old Gandrin the hills were steeper; on some of them snow was still lying.
Lightly burdened only with pack and lute, Lythande traveled with a long
athletic stride that ate up the miles.

 
          
Three
days north of Old Gandrin, the road forked, and Lythande surveyed the paths
ahead. One led down toward a city, dominated by a tall castle; the other led
upward, farther into the hills. After a moment's thought, Lythande took the
upward road.

 
          
For
a time, nothing happened. The brilliant sunlight had given Lythande a headache;
the magician's eyes narrowed against the sun. After a few more paces, the
headache was joined with a roiling queasiness. Lythande scowled, wondering if
the bread eaten for breakfast had become tainted. But under the hood of the mage-robe
Lythande could feel the burning prickle of the Blue Star.

 
          
Magic.
Strong magic. .
. .

           
The lute.
The enchantment.
Of course.
Experimentally, Lythande took a few more steps up the forest road. The
sickness increased, and the pressure of the Blue Star was painful.

 
          
"So,"
Lythande said aloud, and turned back, retracing the path; then took the road
leading down to city and castle. At once the headache diminished, the
queasiness subsided,
even
the air seemed to smell
fresher. The Blue Star was again quiescent on Lythande's brow.

 
          
"So."
Tashgan had not exaggerated the enchantment
of the lute. Shrugging slightly, Lythande took the road down into the city,
feeling an enthusiasm and haste which was quite alien to the magician's own
attitude.
Magic.
But Lythande was no stranger to
magic.

 
          
Lythande
could almost feel the lute's pleasure like a gigantic cat purring. Then the
spell was silent and Lythande was standing in the courtyard of the castle.

 
          
A
liveried servant bowed.

 
          
"I
welcome you, stranger. May I serve you?"

 
          
With
a mental shrug, Lythande resolved to test Tashgan's truth. "I bear the
lute of Prince Tashgan of Tschardain, who has returned to his own country. I
come in the peace of a minstrel."

 
          
The
servant bowed, if possible, even lower. "In the name of my lady, I welcome
you. All minstrels are welcome here, and my lady is a lover of music. Come with
me, minstrel, rest and refresh yourself, and I will conduct you to my
lady."

 
          
So
Tashgan had not exaggerated the tales of hospitality. Lythande was conducted
to a guest chamber, brought elegant food and wine and offered a luxurious bath
in a marble bathroom with water spouting from golden spigots in the shape of
dolphins. Guest-garments of silk and velvet were readied by servants.

 
          
Alone,
unspied-upon (Adepts of the Blue Star have ways of knowing whether they are
being watched), Lythande ate modestly of the fine foods, and drank a little of
the wine, but resumed the dark mage-robe. Waiting in the elaborate guest
quarters, Lythande took the elegant lute from its case, tuned it carefully, and
awaited the summons.