And now, in the heavy darkness of Roygan's treasure room, the light of the Blue Star alone would serve; Lythande felt the curious prickling, half pain, as the Blue Star began to glow. ... a blue light stole through the darkness, and by that subtle illumination, the Pilgrim Adept made out the contours of great chests, carelessly heaped jewels, bolted boxes . . . where, in all this hodgepodge of stolen treasure, laid up magpie fashion by Roygan's greed, was Rastafyre's wand to be found? Lythande paused, thoughtful, by one great heap of jewels, rubies blazing like Keth's rays at sunrise, sapphires flung like dazzling reflections of the light of the Blue Star, a superb diamond necklace loosely flung like a constellation blazing beneath the pole-star of a single great gem. Lythande had spoken truly to Rastefyre, jewels were no temptation, yet for a moment the magician thought almost sadly of the women whose throats and slender arms and fingers had once been adorned with these jewels; why should Roygan profit by their great losses, if they felt the need of these toys and trinkets to enhance their beauty? And Lythande hesitated, considering. There was a spell which, once spoken, would disperse all these jewels back to their rightful owners, by the Law of Resonances.
Yet why should Lythande take on the karma of these unknown women, women Lythande would never see or know? If it had not been their just fate to lose the jewels to the clever hands of a thief, no doubt Roygan would have sought in vain for the keys to their treasure chests.
By that same token, why should I interfere with my magic in the just karma of Rastafyre, who lost his wand because he could not contain his lust for the wife of Roygan? Would not the loss of wand and virility teach him a just respect for the discipline of continence? It would not be for long, only till he could take the trouble to fashion and consecrate another wand of Power. . .
But Lythande had given the word of a Pilgrim Adept; for the honor of the Blue Star, what was promised must be performed. Sworn to the Law, it was Lythande's sworn duty to punish a thief, and all the more because Roygan preyed, not on Lythande whose defenses were sufficient for revenge, but upon'the harmless Rastafyre . . . and if Roygan's wife found him not sufficient, then that was Roygan's karma too. Shivering somewhat in the darkness of the storeroom, Lythande whispered the spell that would make the treasure boxes transparent to the Sight. By the witchlight, Lythande scanned box after box, seeing nothing which might, by the remotest chance, be the wand of Rastafyre.
And outside the light was fading fast, and in the darkness, all the things of magic would be loosed. . . .
And as if the thought had summoned it, suddenly it was there, though Lythande had not seen any door by which it could have entered the treasure chamber, a great grey shape, leaping high at the mage's throat. Lythande whirled, whipping out the dagger on the right, and thrust, hard, at the bane-wolfs throat.
It went through the throat as if through air. Not a true beast, then, but a magical one. . . . Lythande dropped the right-hand dagger, and snatched, left-handed, at the other, the dagger intended for fighting the powers and beasts of magic; but the delay had been nearly fatal; the teeth of the bane-wolf met, like fiery needles, in Lythande's right arm, forcing a cry from the magician's lips. It went unheard; the magical beast fought in silence, without a snarl or a sound even of breathing; Lythande thrust with the left-hand dagger, but could not reach the heart; then the bane-wolfs uncanny weight bore Lythande, writhing, to the ground. Again the needle-teeth of the enchanted creature met like flame in Lythande's shoulder, then in the knee thrust up to ward the beast from the throat. Lythande knew; if the fiery teeth met but once in the throat, it would cut off breath and life. Slowly, painfully, fighting upward, thrusting again and again, Lythande managed to wrestle the beast back, at the cost of bite after bite from the cruel. flame-teeth; the bane-wolfs blazing eyes flashed against the light of the Blue Star, which grew fainter and feebler as Lythande's struggles weakened.
Have I come this far to die in a dark cellar in the maw of a wolf, and not even a true wolf, but a thing created by the filthy misuse of sorcery at the hands of a thief?
The thought maddened the magician; with a fierce effort, Lythande thrust the magical dagger deeper into the shoulder of the were-beast, seeking for the heart. With the full thrust of the spell, backed by all Lythande's agony, the magician's very arm thrust through un-natural flesh and bone, striking inward to the lungs, into the very heart of the creature. . . . the blazing breath of the wolf smoked and failed; Lythande withdrew arm and dagger, slimed with the magical blood, as the beast, in eerie silence, writhed and died on the floor, slowly curling and melting into wisps of smoke, until only a little heap of ember, like burnt blood, remained on the floor of the treasure room.
Lythande's breath came loud in the silence as the Pilgrim Adept wiped the slime from the magical dagger, thrust it back into one sheath, then sought on the floor for where the right-hand dagger had fallen. There was slime on the magician's left hand, too, and the Adept wiped it, viciously, on a bolt of precious velvet; Roygan's things to Roygan, then! When the right-hand dagger was safe again in the other sheath, Lythande turned to the frantic search again for Rastafyre's wand. It was not to be thought of, that there would be much more time. Even if Roygan toyed with the wife who was all his now Rastafyre's power was gone, he could not stay with her forever, and if his magical power had created the bane-wolf, surely the death of the creature, drawing as it did on Roygan's own vitality, would alert him to the intrusion into his treasure room.
Through the lid of one of the boxes, Lythande could see, in the magical witchlight which responded only to the things of magical Power, a long narrow shape, wrapped in silks but still glowing with the light that singled out the things of magic. Surely that must be Rastafyre's wand, unless Roygan the Thief had a collection of such things—and the kind of incompetence which had allowed Roygan to get the wand, was uncommon among magicians . . . praise to Keth's all-seeing eye!
Lythande fumbled with the lock. Now that the excitement of the fight with the bane-wolf had subsided, shoulder and arm were aching like half-healed burns where the enchanted teeth had met in Lythande's flesh. Worse than burns, perhaps, Lythande thought, for they might not yield to ordinary burn remedies! The magician wanted to tear off the tattered tunic where the bane-wolf had torn, but there were reasons not to do this within an enemy's stronghold! Lythande drew the mage-robe's folds closer, bitten hands wrenching at the bolts. The Pilgrim Adept was very strong; unlike those magicians who relied always on magic and avoided exertion, Lythande had traveled afoot and alone over all the highroads and by-roads lighted by the Twin Suns, and the wiry arms, the elegant-looking hands, had the strength of the daggers they wielded. After a moment the first hinge of the chest yielded, with a sound as loud, in the darkening cellar, as the explosion of fireworks; Lythande flinched at the sound . . . surely even Roygan must hear that in his wife's very chamber! Now for the other hinge. The bitten hands were growing more painful by the moment; Lythande took the right-hand dagger, the one intended for objects which were natural and not magic, and tried to wedge it under the hinge, prying in grim silence without success. Was the damned thing spelled shut? No; for then Lythande's hands alone could not have budged the first bolt. Blood was dripping from the blistered hand before the second lock gave way, and Lythande reached into the chest, and recoiled as if from the very teeth of the bane-wolf. Howling with rage and pain and frustration, Lythande swept into the chest with the left-hand dagger; there was a small ghastly shrilling and something ugly, horrible and only half visible, writhed and died. But now Lythande held the wand of Rastafyre, triumphant.
Wincing at the pain, Lythande stripped the concealing cloths from the wand. A grimace of distaste came over the magician's narrow face as the phallic carvings and shape of the wand were revealed, but after all, this had been fairly obvious—that Rastafyre would arm his wand with his manhood. It was, after all, his own problem; it was not Lythande's karma to teach other magicians either discretion or manners. A bargain had been made and a service should be perfor
med.
Hastily wadding the protective silks around the wand—it was easier to handle that way, and Lythande had no wish even to look upon the gross thing—Lythande turned to the business of getting out again. Not through the walls. Darkness had surely fallen by now; though in the windowless treasure-room it was hard to tell, but there must be a door somewhere.
Lythande had heard nothing; but abruptly, as the witch-light flared, Roygan the Proud stood directly in the center of the room.
"So, Lythande the Magician is Lythande the Thief! How like you the business of thievery, then, Magician?"
A trap, then. But Lythande's mellow, neutral voice was calm.
"It is written; from the thief all shall be stolen at last. By the ring in your nose, Roygan; you know the truth of what I say."
With an inarticulate howl of rage, Roygan hurled himself at Lythande. The magician stepped aside, and Roygan hurtled against a chest, giving a furious yelp of pain as his knees collided with the metalled edge of the chest. He whriled, but Lythande, dagger in hand, stood facing him.
"Ring of Lythande, ring of Roygan's shame, be welded to this," Lythande murmured, and the dagger flung itself against Roygan's face. Roygan grunted with pain as Lythande's dagger molded itself against the ring, curling around his face.
"Ai! Ai! Take it off, damn you by every god and godlet of Gandrin, or I—"
"You will what?" demanded Lythande, looking with an aloof grin at Roygan's face, the dagger curled around the end of his nose, and gripping, as if by a powerful magnet, at the metal tips of Roygan's teeth. Furious, howling, Roygan flung himself again at Lythande, his yell wordless now as the metal of the dagger fastened itself tighter to his teeth. Lythande laughed, stepping free easily from Roygan's clutching hands; but the thief s face was alight with sudden triumphant glee.
"Hoy," he mumbled through the edges of the dagger. "Now I have touched Lythande and I know your secret. . . . Lythande, Pilgrim Adept, wearer of the Blue Star, you are—ai! Ai-ya!" With a fearful screech of pain, Roygan fell to the floor, wordless as the dagger curled deeper into his mouth; blood burst from his lip, and in the next moment, Lythande's other dagger thrust through his heart, in the merciful release from agony.
Lythande bent, retrieved the dagger which had thrust into Roygan's heart. Then, Blue Star blazing magic, Lythande reached for the other dagger, which had bitten through Roygan's lips, tongue, throat. A murmured spell restored it to the shape of a dagger, the metal slowly uncurling under the stroking hands of the owner's sorcery. Slowly, sighing, Lythande sheathed both daggers.
I meant not to kill him. But I knew too well what his next words would be; and the magic of a Pilgrim Adept is void if the Secret is spoken aloud. And, knowing, I could not let him live. Why was she so regretful? Roygan was not the first Lythande had killed to keep that Secret, the words actually on Roygan's mutilated tongue; Lythande, you are a woman.
A woman. A woman, who in her pride had penetrated the courts of the Pilgrim Adepts in disguise; and when the Blue Star was already between her brows, had been punished and rewarded with the Secret she had kept well enough to deceive even the Great Adept in the Temple of the Blue Star.
Your Secret, then, shall be forever; for on the day when any man save myself shall speak your secret aloud, your power is void. Be then forever doomed with the Secret you yourself have chosen, and be forever in the eyes of all men what you made us think you.
Bitterly, Lythande thrust the wand of Rastafyre under the folds of the mage-robe. Now she had leisure to find a way out by the doors. The locks yielded to the touch of magic; but before leaving the cellar, Lythande spoke the spell which would return Roygan's stolen jewels to their owners.
A small victory for the cause of Law. And Roygan the thief had met his just fate.
Stepping out into the fading sunlight, Lythande blinked. It had seemed to take hours, that silent struggle in the darkness of the Treasure-room. Yet the sun still lingered, and a little child played noiselessly, splashing her feet in the fountain, until a chubby young woman came to scold her merrily and tug her withindoors. Listening to the laughter, Lythande sighed. A thousand years, a thousand memories, cut her away from the woman and the child.
To love no man lest my Secret be known. To love no woman lest she be a target for my enemies in quest of the Secret.
And she risked exposure and powerlessness, again and again, for such as Rastafyre. Why?
Because I must. There was no answer other than that, a Pilgrim Adept's vow to Law against Chaos. Rastafyre should have his wand back. There was no law that all magicians should be competent.
She laid a narrow hand along the wand, trying not to flinch at the shape, and murmured, "Bring me to your master."
Lythande found Rastafyre in a tavern; and, having no wish for any public display of power, beckoned him outside. The tubby little magician stared up in awe at the blazing Blue Star.
"You have it? Already?"
Silently, Lythande held out the wrapped wand to Rastafyre. As he touched it, he seemed to grow taller, handsomer, less tubby; even his face fell into lines of strength, and virility.
"And now my fee," Lythande reminded him.
He said sullenly "How know I that Roygan the Proud will not come after me?"
"I knew not," said Lythande calmly, "that your magic had power to raise the dead, oh Rastafyre the Incomparable."
"You—you—k-k-k-he's dead?"
"He lies where his ill-gotten treasures rest, with the ring of Lythande still through his nose," Lythande said calmly. "Try, now, to keep your magic wand out of the power of other men's wives."
Rastafyre chuckled. He said "But wha-wha—what else would I do w-w-with my p-p-power?"
Lythande grimaced. "Koira's lute," she said, "or you will lie where Roygan lies."
Rastafyre the Incomparable raised his hand. "Ca-ca-Carrier," he intoned, and, flickering in and off in the dullness of the room, the velvet bag winked in, out again, came back, vanished again even as Rastafyre had his hand within it.
"Damn you, Ca-ca-Carrierl Come or go, but don't flicker like that! Stayl Stay, I said!" He sounded, Lythande thought, as if he were talking to a reluctant puppy dog.
Finally, when he got it entirely materialized, he drew forth the lute. With a grave bow, Lythande accepted it, tucking it out of sight under the mage-robe.
"Health and prosperity to you, O Lythande,!' he said—for once without stuttering; perhaps the wand did that for him too?
"Health and prosperity to you, O Rastafyre the incom—" Lythande hesitated, laughed aloud and said, "Incomparable."
He took himself off then and Lythande added silently, "And more luck in your adventures," as she watched Ca-ca-Carrier dimly lumping along like a small surly shadow at his heels, until at last it vanished entirely.
Alone, Lythande stepped into the dark street, under the cold and moonless sky. With a single gesture the magical circle blotted away all surroundings; there was neither time nor space. Then Lythande began to play the lute softly. There was a little stirring in the silence, and the figure of Koira, slender, delicate, her pale hair shimmering about her face and her body gleaming through wispy veils, appeared before her.
"Lythande—" she whispered. "It is you!"
"It is I, Koira. Sing to me," Lythande commanded. "Sing to me the song you sang when we sat together in the gardens of Hilarion."
Lythande's fingers moved on the lute, and Koira's soft contralto swelled out into an ancient song from a country half a world away and so many years Lythande feared to remember how many.
"The years shall fall upon you, and the light That dwelled in you, go into endless night; As wine, poured out and sunk into the ground, Even your song shall leave no breath of sound, And as the leaves within the forest fall, Your memory will not remain at all, As a word said, a song sung, and be Forever with the memories—"
"Stop," Lythande said, strangled. Koira fell silent, last whispering, "I sang at your command and now I am still at your command."
> When Lythande could look up without the agony of despair, Koira too was silent. Lythande said at last, "What binds you to the lute, Koira whom once I loved?"
"I know not," Koira said, and it seemed that the ghost of her voice was bitter, "I know only that while this lute survives, I am enslaved to it."
"And to my will?"
"Even so, Lythande."
Lythande set her mouth hard. She said, "You would not love me when you might; now shall I have you whether you will or no."
"Love—" Koira was silent. "We were maidens then and we loved after the fashion of young maidens; and then you went into a far country where I would not follow, for my heart was a woman's heart, and you—"
"What do you know of my heart?" Lythande cried out in despair.
"I knew that my heart was a woman's heart and longed for a love other than yours," Koira said. "What would you, Lythande? You too are a woman; I call that no love ..."
Lythande's eyes were closed. But at last the voice was stubborn. "Yet you are here and you shall sing forever at my will, and be forever silent about your desire for a man's love ... for you there is none other than I, now!"
Koira bowed deeply, but it seemed to Lythande that there was mockery in the bow.
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