Taking Flight (Ethshar)

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “I mean, did she tell you that not only can't she grow old, she can't grow up? She'll be fifteen forever, not just physically, but mentally.”

  “She said she was fifteen,” Kelder agreed warily.

  “She meant it,” Valder said. “She's fifteen in every way, except chronologically. She can't ever change, can't mature. She'll always be flighty and spoiled and selfish.”

  “Well...” Kelder began.

  That didn't sound possible, somehow. He turned to see what Asha thought, only to discover that the child had fallen asleep in her chair.

  Then Irith called from the stairs, and the kitchen door opened for the delivery of their dinner, and Kelder decided to worry about it later.

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  * * *

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Valder, in a generous gesture that Kelder found himself not really appreciating, gave Ezdral, Irith, and Kelder separate rooms, at no charge; Asha he put in Thetta's room.

  The dinner, too, was on the house—except for the wine. That he charged for. Ezdral didn't seem to mind, however, having obtained oushka somewhere. Valder had to carry the old man to his room.

  Asha had woken up long enough to stuff bread and cheese in her mouth, and had then dozed off again, and been turned over to Thetta for the night.

  When Valder returned from hauling the unconscious Ezdral upstairs, he took a place at the table and said seriously, “We need to get that spell off him.”

  “I know,” Kelder said. Irith looked down at her plate.

  “Iridith should be back in a couple of days,” Valder went on, “and I'm sure she knows what to do—it's probably something very simple, really.”

  “She's not here?” Irith looked up.

  “No, she's up at the other inn,” Valder replied.

  “What other inn?” the Flyer asked.

  “Oh, didn't I tell you?”

  Irith shook her head.

  “We bought another inn, up in Sardiron, in The Passes,” Valder explained. “The man who built it was getting old and wanted to retire to his grandson's farm. It's called the Crimson Wolf, and it's in a really good location, on the road from the Tazmor mines to Sardiron of the Waters. I figure that every so often I'll move up there, and then my son can come back and run this place a few years later.”

  “Your son?” Kelder asked.

  “He doesn't have a son, silly,” Irith explained. “That's how he keeps people from realizing he's two hundred years old.”

  This confirmation that Valder really was ancient, and that he and Irith apparently did share a good many secrets with one another, was reassuring. It meant the innkeeper was neither lying nor mad. “I see,” Kelder said.

  “I guess we'll just have to put up with him until she gets back,” Irith said.

  Kelder nodded agreement.

  “Well, you're welcome to stay until then,” Valder said. “You may have to double up if it gets busy, though—I don't usually have three empty rooms.”

  “That would be fine,” Kelder said, “but we don't have much money...”

  “Don't worry about that,” Valder said. “I never charge Irith or her friends.”

  “Oh,” Kelder said. “If you're sure...”

  “I'm sure.”

  “Well, thank you.”

  “And I'll do what I can to keep liquor away from the old man,” Valder continued, “but it probably won't do any good.”

  “I know,” Kelder said. “Thank you anyway.”

  Valder waved his gratitude aside. “That takes care of him, then,” he said. “But I don't think he was the only problem you brought with you. What about the little girl?”

  Kelder and Irith looked at each other, then back at Valder. “Her father beat her,” Irith said, “so she ran away from home. She was going to stay with her brother, who had joined a party of bandits in Angarossa, but they tried to rob a caravan that had hired a demonologist as a guard.” She shuddered delicately. “The merchants are getting mean about Angarossa, now.”

  “The brother's dead?” Valder asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Kelder said. “We built his pyre ourselves.”

  “Any other sibs? Or her mother?”

  “Her mother's dead,” Kelder replied, “and there weren't any other sibs.”

  “She's very stubborn,” Irith remarked.

  “Tough, too,” Kelder said. “I think that if she just had a roof over her head and steady meals, she could take care of herself just fine.”

  “Do you want to keep her with you?” Valder asked him.

  Kelder hesitated, then said, “The problem is, I don't have a roof over my head, or steady meals.”

  “Do you have a home somewhere?”

  “Well, my parents are back in Shulara,” Kelder explained, “but I don't think they'd take Asha in. Or maybe they would—I don't really know.” He hadn't really considered it. He had planned on taking Irith back to Shulara as his wife, but the idea of taking Asha there had simply never occurred to him.

  “Can she work?” Valder asked.

  Kelder and Irith looked at each other again.

  “I don't know,” Kelder answered.

  “If she can,” Valder said, “and if she wants to, she can stay here. I'm not short-handed right now, but Thetta keeps talking about leaving, and Semder wants to leave and find an apprenticeship now that he's old enough, so I probably will be short-handed soon enough. The work's not hard, really.”

  “You'll have to ask her,” Kelder said, “but it sounds good to me.”

  “Me, too,” Irith agreed.

  “Well, then,” Valder said, rising, “I guess that's everything.”

  “I suppose so,” Irith said, also rising, “and I'm going to bed—I'm tired, and I've been using the bloodstone spell too much lately.”

  “I'll be up in a few minutes,” Kelder said. He sat where he was, and watched Irith walk gracefully up the stairs. She was wearing a plain woolen tunic of Thetta's, simple and unadorned dark blue, with a black wool skirt, and neither garment was particularly attractive; even so, she was astonishingly beautiful.

  Valder watched, too, and then looked at Kelder. He sat down again.

  “You're in love with her, too, aren't you?” he asked.

  Reluctantly, Kelder admitted, “I think so.” He started to say more, to tell Valder about Zindre's prophecies, then stopped. The innkeeper seemed like a trustworthy sort, the kind of person one wants to confide in, but really, Kelder thought, it wasn't any of his business.

  “Do you think she might have used the spell on you, too?”

  Kelder considered that, but shook his head. “I don't think so,” he said. “I'm certainly not as obsessed with her as Ezdral is. And Irith says that if she had used it on me, I wouldn't argue with her so much.”

  "Do you argue with her?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Then you're right, you're probably not enchanted.”

  It was a relief to hear that from a knowledgeable third party. “Thank you,” Kelder said. "She is, though,” he added a moment later.

  “Is what?”

  “Enchanted,” Kelder explained. “I'd like to break that, too.”

  Valder's eyes widened. “There isn't any love spell on her," he said, “is there? I didn't think that was possible—she's supposed to be immune to magic.”

  Kelder shook his head. “I didn't mean a love spell,” he said. “I meant Javan's whatever-it-is.”

  “Oh, that," Valder said. “She doesn't want to break that, though.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Well,” Valder said slowly, “Iridith offered to try to break the spell, years ago, and Irith wasn't interested.”

  “She might be now, though,” Kelder said.

  Valder shrugged.

  “She might,” he said.

  That night, lying in bed alone, Kelder thought long and hard about his future.

  He had had his fill of traveling. The towns along the Great Highway were all very well, but
he had no place in them, and he had no great urge to spend his life wandering from one to the next, working odd jobs and living in inns. He was ready to settle down again, at least for awhile.

  But did he really want to go home to Shulara?

  Zindre had said he would go back, so he had taken it for granted, but did he want to go back? Back to the rolling green hills, the hard, boring work on the farm, his oh-so-superior older sisters? Returning covered in glory might be fun, but living there again—somehow, after all his traveling, Shulara seemed smaller and duller than ever in retrospect. The Great Highway hadn't been lined with magicians and minstrels, he hadn't seen a single dice game or bedded any serving wenches; the World was not the bright roaring carnival he had hoped for. It was, instead, larger and more complicated than he had imagined.

  Going back to Shulara—he didn't think it would work.

  But if he didn't want to go on wandering, and didn't want to go back, what was left?

  He could settle somewhere else, of course—find a home, a steady income. Friends, maybe.

  He remembered Azraya, who intended to become a sailor, and thought that might be the best of both paths, in a way—your ship was your home, your crewmates your friends, yet you traveled the World, seeing its wonders.

  That might be worth trying.

  He couldn't sign onto a ship here on the river, though—at least, not so far as he knew. From here, he had two routes he could take.

  Ethshar lay one long day's march to the south—Ethshar of the Spices, the largest city in the World, which the bolder storytellers claimed was home to a million people; Ethshar, the greatest port in the World, whence ships sailed to the farthest lands of north, south, and west; Ethshar, home to the invincible army of the city's overlord, to all the greatest magicians, the wisest scholars; Ethshar, where it was said that absolutely anything could be had for a price.

  He could be there in a day, once Irith's spells were all broken. And he could find work there, even if it was just soldiering in the city guard.

  Or he could go back home to Shulara, to the farm and family.

  There wasn't really anywhere else he wanted to go in the Small Kingdoms; none of the towns he had passed through stood out as a good place to settle. If not back to Shulara, then on to Ethshar.

  But should he go home? That was what the prophecy had said.

  But it had not said when, and it had implied he would see Ethshar first. If Iridith could break the spells on Ezdral and Irith right here, there was no more need to go to Ethshar—but there was no reason he couldn't. He could always change his mind and go back later.

  And if he went home, he could leave again, couldn't he?

  Well, perhaps not, not if he had crops and children to worry about. Better, then, to see Ethshar first, then go home.

  And then there was Irith to consider. He did not think she would accept a marriage proposal just yet; maybe she would, but he wasn't ready to try it.

  But would she be more likely to accept if he were going on to Ethshar, or if he were going home to Shulara?

  He tried to imagine Irith living with him in the hills of Shulara, tending the house and crops, trading at the market. The image wouldn't come; every time he thought of her he saw her spreading her wings and soaring upward, away from anything so mundane as farm and family.

  If her spells were broken, though, she would have no wings.

  He remembered once, as a boy, he had watched the princess ants emerging from their nest, swarming upward into the sky on their transparent, shining wings. His father had explained how each one would find a new place, a new nest, where she would settle in. Her wings would fall off, and she would become a queen, staying safe underground and laying her eggs while her offspring tended to her.

  Irith was like that; she had fled her old home, where there was no safe place for her, and had flittered about the World.

  Sooner or later, though, came a time to shed the wings and settle in.

  Kelder had been away from home less than a month, and he felt he was ready to settle—if it was with Irith.

  But somehow, he knew she would never settle while she had her magic. She might try, but he would age, and she would not; he would mature, and she would not; and one day she would get bored and fly away.

  But he was sure she would agree to give up her magic. After all, after two hundred years, she must be tired of it all, must be ready to grow up and settle down.

  It might take her awhile to realize it, but surely, she would.

  He rolled over and went to sleep.

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  * * *

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Iridith returned to the Inn At The Bridge some three days after Irith and her companions had arrived; she flew up to the door around midafternoon of the third day, startling Kelder considerably. He had never seen anyone fly without wings before.

  That three days had been pleasant enough; Asha had been delighted at the suggestion that she might stay at the inn permanently, and had immediately set out to learn her way around the kitchen, yard, and stable. Ezdral had remained much the same, drinking surreptitiously, staring at Irith, following her and muttering incoherently when awake, and spending most of his time asleep, or at any rate unconscious.

  Kelder and Irith had wandered about the area, admiring the broad river, the vast open sky of the plain, the impressive engineering of Azrad's Bridge—and each other.

  Kelder was surprised, the morning of the first day, to see that the inn was built at a fork; the Great Highway split here, running in three directions, rather than two.

  The northern route led back across the bridge to the Small Kingdoms; the southern to Ethshar of the Spices; and the third road went westward, to Ethshar of the Sands and all the northern lands.

  When Iridith arrived Asha was washing plates, Ezdral was snoring by the hearth, and Irith was off somewhere fluttering about in the shape of a rainbow-hued bird, while Kelder sat out front and contemplated the three roads, thinking about nothing in particular. Thus only Kelder saw the wizard descend gracefully out of the sky and land gently on her feet.

  “You must be Iridith,” he said in Trader's Tongue, as she stepped up to the door.

  “I suppose I must,” she said in Ethsharitic.

  Kelder switched languages, apologized for his rudeness, and introduced himself as he opened the door for her and then followed her inside.

  He stood quietly not watching as she and Valder greeted each other enthusiastically. When the two were no longer touching, he broached the subject of countercharms.

  “The love spell is easy,” the wizard said, once the situation had been explained. “A drop of the spell-caster's blood in each of the victim's eyes will clear that right up.”

  “The spell-caster?” Kelder asked.

  “In this case,” Iridith said, “that would be Irith.”

  “We need her blood?”

  “Certainly. Just two drops; a pin-prick will do fine.”

  Kelder was unsure just how willing Irith would be—but after all, it was just two drops, and it would cure Ezdral.

  On the more serious question of how Javan's Second Augmentation could be ended, Iridith hesitated. “You know,” she said, “I've had ideas of how to do it before, and Irith has always refused.”

  “I don't think she will this time,” Kelder said. “I think she's finally growing up.”

  Valder and Iridith looked at one another silently, then back at Kelder.

  “Kelder,” Iridith said gently, “she can't grow up. Ever. At all. Not until the spell is broken.”

  “I think she has,” he insisted. “Just a little.”

  “Well,” Iridith said reluctantly, “we can ask her.”

  They did ask her, an hour later, in the main room of the inn.

  “Kelder,” she said, staring at him, “are you crazy? Give up my magic? Let myself grow old and ugly, and die someday? Spend all my time in one shape, so I can't get away if someone bothers me? Give up
flying?"

  “But, Irith...” he began.

  “Are you crazy?" she repeated. “Of course I won't give it up!”

  “I was thinking you could come back to Shulara with me...” Kelder began.

  “To Shulara? What, and be a farmer? Just sit in one place until I rot?" She stared at him in disbelief. “You are crazy! Kelder, why would I want to live like that? I'm famous, and free! I'm special the way I am!”

  And then, as if to emphasize her point, she vanished. A moment later Kelder heard the beating of wings outside; he stepped to the door and saw her appear again, rising into the air on gleaming white pinions.

  He watched her go with his gut hard and tight with disappointment.

  “I should have known,” he muttered to himself.

  Valder and Iridith said nothing.

  Irith returned during supper, and the subject was never mentioned again; instead, Iridith explained how to remove the spell on Ezdral.

  “That's all?” Irith asked. “Two drops of blood? I could have done that years ago!”

  “Yes,” Iridith agreed. “If you'd known, you could have.”

  Irith frowned. “Well, next time,” she said, “I'll know what to do.”

  “Next...” Kelder stopped himself before another word could escape, but the knot of dismay in his belly grew larger and heavier.

  “Shall we take the blood now?” Iridith asked, drawing the silver dagger from her belt.

  Irith eyed the blade unhappily, then glanced at Ezdral, still asleep on a bench by the hearth. “There isn't any hurry, is there?” she said. “I mean, Ezdral won't care if we wait a few days.”

  That was the pebble that sank the barge. Kelder grabbed Irith by the arm and shoved his face close to hers.

  “Listen,” he said, “you are going over to Ezdral right now, and I'm going to prick your finger, and we're going to put a drop of your blood under each eyelid, just the way Iridith said, whether he's asleep or not. He's been under your damnable spell for forty years too long already!”

  “All right," she said, pulling away. “You don't need to shout!"

  She turned and looked at the drunkard with distaste, but when Kelder reached for her again she rose quickly and crossed to him. She knelt beside him and held out her left hand.