Young Witches & Warlocks

by Asimov, Isaac

  She helped him saddle the white horse. On a pretext of adjusting the saddlebags, she slipped her hand inside and found a money pouch. Swiftly, she palmed one, two, three coins—and slyly transferred them to her own pocket for later examination. Even if he only took her to the next town, she would profit by the association.

  As they traveled alongside the river, she rode behind him on the horse. “How far north are you going?”

  “To the mountains,” he said and began to pick a tune on his lute.

  “To the court of the Lady of the Wind,” she guessed, then suppressed a smile when he frowned. Where else would a minstrel go in the mountains? She amended mentally; where else would a thief go? “Could I come with you?”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged as if reasons were not important. “I’ve never been to a court before. I’ve heard the Lady is very beautiful.”

  The minstrel shook his head. “Beautiful, but wicked.”

  “I can pay my way,” Tarsia said, wondering if he would recognize the look of his own coins.

  But he shook his head again and the tune he was playing changed, mellowing to music that she remembered from her childhood. She could not remember the words except for the refrain about the beautiful Lady and the four lean windhounds at her side. The Lady was the sister to the sun and daughter of the moon.

  When the minstrel sang the refrain, it had a sneering, cynical tone. The lyrics were about how the Lady had bound the spirits of the Earth, the Water, and the Fire, how she had captured the four winds and bound them in her tower, about how the world would be unhappy until the four winds were free.

  “That isn’t the way that I remember the song,” Tarsia said when the minstrel finished.

  He shrugged. “In my country, we pay the Lady no tribute. Our lands have been dry and our crops have been poor for five long years. We do not love the Lady.”

  Tarsia remembered the parade that was held each year in the Lady’s honor when the tribute was sent. The city was noted for its silverwork, and each year, the best that the artisans had produced was sent to the mountain court. And the winds blew through the towers and brought rain for the farmers around the city walls.

  Last year, at the end of a day of picking the pockets of parade spectators, Tarsia had climbed the city wall and watched from above the gate while the caravan headed north, winding between farmers’ huts and green fields. On her high perch, she had been chilled by the wind—but glad to be above the crowd. The last horse in the caravan had carried a silver statuette of the Lady gazing into the distance with one hand resting on the head of a hound. Tarsia had felt a kinship with the Lady then—alone and proud, above the world.

  “Why don’t you pay tribute,” she asked the minstrel. “Are you too poor?”

  “Too proud,” he said. “Our king will not allow it.”

  “How foolish!”

  The minstrel smiled wryly. “Maybe so. The whole family is foolish, I suppose. Idealistic and stiff-necked.”

  “So the people of your land will die of pride.”

  He shook his head. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Maybe something will happen.” He sighed. “I don’t know, though—the king seems inclined to rely on luck. He seems to think the prophecy will come to pass.”

  Tarsia frowned. “Why are you going to the Lady’s court if you don’t like her?”

  “A minstrel doesn’t worry about magic and winds.” He started to play another song, as if to avoid further discussion. The notes echoed across the slow green waters of the river and the steady beat of the horse’s hooves provided the rhythm. He sang about an undine, a river nymph who took a human lover, then betrayed him to the waters, letting the river rise to drown him.

  Trees with long leaves trailed their branches in the water. The path twisted among the gnarled trunks. They wandered deeper into the shade and the river seemed to take the sunlight into itself, letting it sparkle in swirling eddies but never allowing it to escape. On the far side of the river, the bank rose in a fern-covered cliff, decked with flowers.

  “Pretty country,” Tarsia said.

  “Treacherous country,” said the minstrel. “If you tried climbing the cliff you’d learn that those flowers mark loose rock, ready to give beneath your hand or tumble down on you.”

  At dusk, they were still in the wood and the trees all looked the same. They made camp in an inviting glen, but the tiny fire that Tarsia built seemed to cast little light. Tarsia thought she heard rustling in the trees and once, while she was toasting bread and cheese for dinner, thought she glimpsed a flicker of white in the distance over the river. She wrapped herself in the minstrel’s extra cloak and curled up alone by the side of the fire.

  For a moment she thought that she was in the cavern beneath the city: it was dark and cold. But the wind that beat against her face smelled of flowing water and growing things, and above her, she could see the stars. The Lady stood beside her, a proud, silent presence.

  They had escaped the giant and Tarsia realized that the giant alone was no threat to the Lady. They dipped closer to the earth, and Tarsia could see the winding water of the river, glittering in the moonlight. She could see a tiny spot of light—her own fire—and she thought she could see the minstrel on the ground beside it. So far below.

  She thought of him coming to the Lady’s court to steal and she wished she could invite him into the chariot beside her. So cold and alone he looked, as she had felt so many times on the wall in the city of towers.

  “You are above all that now,” whispered the Lady at her side. “You are the daughter of the moon, sister to the sun.”

  The lapping of the water and the soft nickering of the horse woke her. The water sounded near, very near. She sat up and blinked at the sheen of moonlight on the water, just a few feet away from her. The horse stood at the limits of his tether, pulling away from the rising waters. Blinking again, Tarsia could see the slim figure of a woman dressed in white, standing in the water. At the sound of Tarsia’s movement, the woman looked at her with mournful eyes.

  She held out her hands to Tarsia and water dripped from the tips of her long fingers. Moonlight shimmered on her, just as it shimmered on the water. From her delicate wrists, silver chains which seemed to be fashioned of moonlight extended to the water.

  Tarsia drew her legs away from the water, stood up and backed away. The water nymph stretched out her hands and almost reached Tarsia. The young thief could hear words in the sound of the lapping water. “Come to me, touch me, touch the river.” Tarsia laid a hand on the horse, ready to vault to its back and run.

  The moonlight touched a spot of darkness in the water—the minstrel’s cloak. The water was around his neck and still he slept peacefully. His cloak drifted about his shoulders, moving with the water, half tangled around the tree against which he leaned. To reach the minstrel, Tarsia would have to touch the river and approach the woman of water. But no one would know if she ran away to her mother’s court.

  “Let me go, daughter of the moon,” whispered the water. The breeze that rustled the leaves by Tarsia’s head seemed to be chuckling.

  “Let him go and I’ll free you,” Tarsia bargained desperately. “But let him go first.” She did not know how to free the nymph. The watery hands reached for her and she wanted to leap onto the horse and run.

  “Free me, and I will let him go,” hissed the voice of the lapping water.

  “But I can’t ... I don’t know how. ...”

  A whisper in the night: “Give to me of yourself, daughter of the moon.”

  In the moonlight, Tarsia could see the minstrel’s head fall back into the water and a swirl of silver bubbles rise. She stepped forward, ready to push the water nymph aside. Tarsia’s eyes were wet: tears of frustration, anger, sorrow, pain. A single tear escaped, trickled down her face and fell into the river. Just one.

  Tarsia grabbed the minstrel’s cloak and his arm and roughly dragged him toward the river bank. At the sound of a long sigh, she looked up to see the moonlight
chains on the water woman’s arms fade. The nymph raised her hands to the sky in an exultant gesture and the river sighed: “Thank you, daughter of the Lady.” The slim figure melted into the river, becoming one of the sparkling ripples in the current. The minstrel coughed and began to move.

  Tarsia lit a fire to dry him out, draping the dry cloak over his shoulders. She did not need it for warmth. She felt strong—no longer a thief, but daughter to the Lady.

  “How did you plan to get along without me to build fires?” she asked the minstrel.

  He shrugged his slim shoulders beneath the cloak. “I trust to luck to get me by. Luck and destiny.” His eyes were bright with reflected moonlight. “Sometimes they serve me well.”

  The next day’s ride took them out of the river canyon into the golden foothills. A boy tending a flock of goats by the river stared at them in amazement. “No one ever comes by that path,” he said.

  Tarsia laughed, cheered by the sight of the mountains ahead. “We came that way.”

  “What about the undine?” the boy asked.

  “What about the undine,” she said, still laughing as they rode past. “We sent her on her way.”

  They walked the horse along the river’s edge just past the goatherd. Ahead, they could see the buildings of a small town. The sun shone on Tarsia’s face and she saw the mountains, craggy peaks where the snow never melted. “Take me with you to the Lady’s court,” she asked the minstrel suddenly. “I know why you’re going there, and I want to come.”

  He looked startled. “You know. But . . .”

  She laughed. “Do you think I’m half-witted? No minstrel could afford a horse like this one or a fine leather saddle. I knew you were a thief when we first met.” She shook her head at the incredulous look on his face. “I know you are going to the Lady’s court to steal.”

  “I see,” he said slowly. “But if I’m a thief, why do you want to come with me?” He studied her face intently.

  For a moment, she considered telling the truth. But she was city-bred, not trusting. “I want to see which of the stories about the Lady are true,” she said. “Besides, I can help you.” She could imagine herself at her mother’s side, rewarding the minstrel with gold and jewels for bringing her there, and she smiled.

  “It’s a dangerous place,” he said.

  “If you don’t take me, I will go alone,” she said. “If you take me, I’ll pay my way. I’ll pay for tonight’s lodging.”

  He nodded at last. “If you wish, I’ll take you. But it’s your choice.”

  The breeze whispered in the tall grass of the river bank. “The wind is encouraging us,” Tarsia said.

  “The wind is laughing at us,” said the minstrel.

  In the inn that night, Tarsia and the minstrel were the center of a group of villagers. The boy with the goats had told what path they had followed. “You came past the undine,” the innkeeper said in amazement. “How did you do it?”

  Tarsia told them, leaving out only the water nymph’s sigh of farewell. “So the river is free of the Lady’s bond,” said a sour-faced farmer. “She will not be happy.” And the corners of his mouth turned up in a grim smile.

  “Softly, friend,” advised the innkeeper. “You would not want to be overheard. ...”

  “We live in the shadow of her rule,” grumbled the farmer. “But maybe that will come to an end. My boy said he saw the footprints of a giant heading toward her court. These folks say the undine is free. Maybe the Lady ...”

  “Only one of the Lady’s own blood can free the winds,” interrupted the innkeeper. “And she has no children.”

  “They say she had a daughter once,” said the minstrel quietly. “I studied the ancient stories as a student of the lute. They say that the child was captured in a battle with a neighboring city. The child was killed when the Lady would not release the winds to ransom the girl.”

  “And the Lady mourned for her daughter?” Tarsia added tentatively.

  The crowd of villagers laughed and the minstrel raised his eyebrows. “I doubt it. But the stories don’t really say.”

  A loose shutter banged in the rising wind outside the inn. The group of villagers that had gathered around Tarsia while she had been telling of the water nymph dispersed to other tables.

  “Some say that the winds that the Lady allows to blow carry tales back to her,” the minstrel told Tarsia softly. “No one knows for certain.” The shutter banged again and the conversations around them stopped for a moment, then resumed in hushed tones.

  “The land here was green once,” said the minstrel. “The people have become bitter as the land has become dry.”

  The minstrel began to pick the notes of a slow, sweet tune, and Tarsia went to the bar to bargain with the innkeeper for their night’s lodging. She took one of the minstrel’s coins from her pocket and it flashed silver in the firelight. The innkeeper weighed it in his hand and turned it over to examine both sides.

  “A coin of the south,” he said, then peered more closely at the profile etched on one side.

  The notes of the song that the minstrel was playing drifted across the room, over the sounds of conversation. He was picking out the sad ballad about the Lady that he had played the day before. The innkeeper glanced at him sharply, then looked back at the coin. He seemed to be listening to the sound of the wind prowling around the windows.

  “You are heading into the mountains from here?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Tarsia said cautiously. She knew that he was no friend of the Lady.

  He handed her back the coin. “Good luck,” he said. “Eat supper as you like, and you may sleep in the loft above the stable.”

  She frowned at him without comprehension. “What do you mean? Why?”

  He seemed to study the minstrel’s face in the dim light. “Consider it as payment for ridding the river of the undine.” He smiled at her for the first time, and took her hand to fold her fingers around the coin. “Good luck.”

  She pocketed the coin and returned unhappily to the minstrel’s side. She did not like bargains she did not understand. Like the giant, the innkeeper seemed to think that she knew more than she did.

  “Did you make a deal?” the minstrel asked.

  She sat down on the bench beside him, frowning. “We’re sleeping in the stable loft. No payment—he didn’t even argue.”

  “I see.” The minstrel nodded across the room to the innkeeper and the older man waved back, a gesture that was almost a salute.

  “There are things on which one does not bargain, little one,” said the minstrel. “You’ll have to learn that.”

  That night they bedded down in sweet-smelling hay. Outside, the wind bayed like a pack of hounds on the shunt, and Tarsia lay awake. She listened to the minstrel’s steady breathing and thought about the mountains and the court of the Lady. But she did not want to sleep and dream.

  When she turned restlessly in the hay, the minstrel blinked at her. “Lie down and go to sleep.”

  “I can’t,” she grumbled back, into the darkness that smelled of horses.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I’m cold,” she said, and it was true—even with his extra cloak around her, she was shivering.

  He raised himself on one elbow wearily, and lifted his cloak to invite her to lie beside him. She snuggled against his chest and he touched her cheek lightly. “What’s worrying you?” he asked. “Do you want to turn back?”

  “It used to be so simple,” she said, half to herself. “I used to be just a thief in the city, climbing on the city wall and laughing at people who were foolish enough to let me pick their pockets. So simple. ...”

  “What are you now?” Though his voice was soft, the question had edges.

  The winds bayed and she shivered. “No one. No one at all.”

  The minstrel rocked her gently in his arms and she listened to his steady breathing as he slept beside her. She slept, but not easily.

  The Lady’s hand was warm on Tarsia’s. F
ar below, the small thief could see the village: toy huts set on a golden hillside. The mountains rose ahead of them: cold, gray, and forbidding.

  “We don’t need them,” the Lady said in her soft voice. "It doesn’t matter that they hate me.”

  The wind was in Tarsia’s face and the stars wheeled about her and she was high above them all. No one could touch her here. No one could put her in shackles or chase her into the sewers. She had come home.

  She was quiet when they left town the next morning. The same boy who had met them on the river path was grazing his goats on the hillside. "There are robbers in the mountains,” he called to them. "They’ll get you if you go up there.” The boy was cheerful at the prospect. "There’s a dragon, too. The Lady bound him there. If the robbers don’t get you, the dragon will find you and ...”

  The minstrel urged the horse through the center of the boy’s herd and the goats scattered, bleating as they ran.

  The horse picked its way carefully up the dry slopes. Toward dusk, the grass gave way to rough rock and the animal began stumbling in the dying light. At Tarsia’s suggestion, they dismounted and led the horse. To shake the saddle-weariness from her legs, Tarsia ran ahead, dodging around rocks and scrambling up boulders, feeling almost as if she were at home on the walls of the city. She climbed a rock face and peered over the edge at the minstrel, considering surprising him from above. She saw a movement—a flash of brown—on the trail ahead of him, movements in the brush on either side.

  “Hold it there.” The man who stepped from behind a boulder had an arrow pointed at the minstrel. Other men closed in from behind.

  “I have nothing of value,” said the minstrel casually.

  “Nothing at all.”

  “You’ve got a horse,” said the leader of the robbers. The man had a soft, lilting accent like the minstrel’s. “And I think we need it more than you do.” The man lifted the minstrel’s money pouch from his belt. Grinning, he hefted the pouch in his hand and gazed at the minstrel’s face. “Damn, but your face looks familiar. Do I know you . . . ?” His voice trailed off.