Bradley, Marion Zimmer - SSC 03

by Lythande (v2. 1)

  "Sings, in sad sweet undertone, The song of heart's desire."

  But Lythande, who professed to have no loves and no heart's desire, would she be vulnerable to such an apparition? I had intended this story to be wry and ironic—no use appealing to the heart of the heartless— and discovered it was sentimental and bittersweet.

  As I have said before, I never know what my stories are about until after I've written them. I often find myself toying with an idea then write it to find out what it's about.

  SEA WRACK

  The crimson eye of Keth hovered near the horizon, with the smaller sun of Reth less than an hour behind. At this hour the fishing fleet should have been sailing into the harbor. But there was no sign of any fleet; only a single boat, far out, struggling against the tide.

  Lythande had walked far that day along the shore, enjoying the solitude and singing old, soft sea-songs to the sounds of the surf. Tonight, surely, the Pilgrim-Adept thought, supper must be earned by singing to the lute, for in a simple place like this there would be none to need the services of a mercenary magician, no need for spells or magics, only simple folk, living simply to the rhythms of sea and tides.

  Perhaps it was a holiday; all the boats lay drawn up along the shore. But there was no holiday feel in the single street: angry knots of men sat clumped together scowling and talking in low voices, while a little group of women were staring out to sea, watching the single boat struggling against the tide.

  "Women! By the blinded eyes of Keth-Ketha, how are women to handle a boat?" one of the men snarled. "How are they to handle fishing nets? Curse that—"

  "Keep your voice down," admonished a second, "That—that thing might hear, and wake!"

  Lythande looked out into the bay and saw what had not been apparent before; the approaching boat was crewed, not by men, but by four hearty half-grown girls in their teens. Their muscular arms were bare to the shoulder, skirts tucked up to the knee, their feet clumsy in sea-boots. They seemed to be handling the nets competently enough; and were evidently enormously strong, the kind of women who, if they had been milking a cow, could sling the beast over their shoulder and fetch it home out of a bog. But the men were watching with a jealous fury poorly concealed.

  "Tomorrow I take my own boat out, and the lasses stay home and bake bread where they belong!"

  "That's what Leukas did, and you know what happened to him—his whole crew wrecked on the rocks, and—and something, some thing out there ate boat and all! All they ever found was his hat, and his fishing net chewed half-through! An' seven sons for the village to feed till they're big enough to go out to the fishing— that's supposing we ever have any more fishing around here, and that whatever-it-is out there ever goes away again!"

  Lythande raised a questioning eyebrow. Some menace, to the mercenary magician. Though Lythande bore two swords, girdled at the narrow waist of the mage-robe, the right-hand sword for the everyday menace of threatening humankind or natural beast, the left-hand sword to slay ghost or ghast or ghoul or any manner of supernatural menace, the Adept had no intention of here joining battle against some sea-monster. For that the village must await some hero or fighting man. Lythande was magician and minstrel, and though the sword was for hire where there was need, the Adept had no love for ordinary warfare, and less for fighting some menacing thing needing only brute strength and not craft.

  There was but one inn in the village; Lythande made for it, ordered a pot of ale, and sat in the corner, not touching it—one of the vows fencing the power of an Adept of the Blue Star was that they might never be seen to eat or drink before men—but the price of a drink gave the mage a seat at the center of the action, where all the news of the village could be heard. They were still grousing about the fear that kept them out of the water. One man complained that already the ribs of his boat were cracking and drying and would need mending before he could put it back into the water.

  "If there's ever to be any fishing here again ..."

  "Ye could send the wife and daughters out in the boat like Lubert—"

  "Better we all starve or eat porridge for all our lives!"

  "If we ha' no fish to trade for bread or porridge, what then?"

  "Forgive my curiosity," Lythande said in the mellow, neutral voice that marked a trained minstrel, "but if a sea-monster is threatening the shore, why should women be safe in a boat when men are not?"

  It was the wife of the innkeeper who answered her. "If it was a sea monster, we could go out there, all of us, even with fish-spears, and kill it, like the plainsmen do with the tusk-beasts. It's a mermaid, an' she sits and sings and lures our menfolk to the rocks—look yonder at my goodman," she said in a lowered voice, pointing to a man who sat apart before the fire, back turned to the company, clothing all unkempt, shirt half-buttoned, staring into the fire. His fingers fiddled nervously with the lacings of his clothing, snarling them into loops.

  "He heard her," she said in a tone of such horror that hearing, the little hairs rose and tingled on Lythande's arms and the Blue Star between the magician's brows began to crackle and send forth lightnings. "He heard her, and his men dragged him away from the rocks. And there he sits from that day to this—him that was the jolliest man in all this town, staring and weeping and I have to feed him like a little child, and never take my eyes off him for half a minute or he'll walk out into the sea and drown, and there are times"—her voice sank in despair—"I'm minded to let him go, for he'll never have his wits again—I even have to guide him out to the privy, for he's forgotten even that!" And indeed, Lythande could see a moist spreading stain on the man's trousers, while the woman hastened, embarrassed, to lead her husband outside.

  Lythande had seen the man's eyes; empty, lost, not seeing his wife, staring at something beyond the room.

  Far from the sea, Lythande had heard tales of mermaids, of their enchantments and their songs. The minstrel in Lythande had half-desired to hear those songs, to walk on the rocks and listen to the singing that could, it was said, make the hearer forget all the troubles and joys of the world. But after seeing the man's empty eyes, Lythande decided to forgo the experience.

  "And that is why some of the women have gone in the boats?"

  "Not women," said the innkeeper's potboy, stopping with a tray of tankards to speak to the stranger, "girls too young for men. For they say that to women, it calls in the voice of their lover—Natzer's wife went out last full moon, swearing she'd bring in fish for her children at least, and no one ever saw her again; but a hank of her hair, all torn and bloody, came in on the tide."

  "I never heard that a mermaid was a flesh-eater," Lythande observed.

  "Nor I. But I think she sings, and lures im on the rocks, where the fishes eat them. ..."

  "There is the old stratagem," Lythande suggested. "Put cotton or wax plugs in your ears—"

  "Say, stranger," said a man belligerently, "you think we're all fools out here? We tried that; but she sits on the rocks and she's so beautiful . . . the men went mad, just seeing her, threw me overboard—you can't blindfold yourself, not on the sea with the rocks and all— there's never been a blind fisherman and never will. I swam ashore, and they drove the boat on the rocks, and only the blinded eyes of Keth-Ketha know where they've gone, but no doubt somewhere in the Sea-God's lockup." Lythande turned to face the man, he saw the Blue Star shining out from under the mage-robe and demanded, "Are you a spell-speaker?"

  "I am a Pilgrim-Adept of the Blue Star," Lythande said gravely, "and while mankind awaits the Final Battle of Law and Chaos, I wander the world seeking what may come."

  "I heard of the Temple of the Blue Star," said one woman fearfully. "Could you free us of this mermaid wi' your magic?"

  "I do not know. I have never seen a mermaid," said Lythande, "and I have no great desire for the experience."

  Yet why not? Under the world of the Twin Suns, in a life lasting more than most people's imaginations could believe, the Pilgrim-Adept had seen most things, and the mermaid was new. Lyth
ande pondered how one would attack a creature whose only harm seemed to be that it gave forth with beautiful music—so beautiful that the hearer forgot home and family, loved ones, wife or child; and if the hearer escaped—Lythande shuddered. It was not a fate to be desired—sitting day after day staring into the fire, longing only to hear again that song.

  Yet whatever magic could make, could be unmade again by magic. And Lythande held all the magic of the Temple of the Blue Star, having paid a price more terrifying than any other Adept in the history of the Pilgrim-Adepts. Should that magic now be tried against the unfamiliar magic of a mermaid?

  "We are dying and hungering," said the woman. "Isn't that enough? I believed wizards were sworn to free the world from evil—"

  "How many wizards have you known?" asked Lythande.

  "None, though my mother said her granny told her, once a wizard came and done away wi' a sea-monster on them same rocks."

  "Time is a great artificer," said Lythande, "for even wizards must live, my good woman; the pride of magic, while a suitable diversion while we all await the burning out of the Twin Suns and the Final Battle between Law and Chaos, puts no beans on the table. I have no great desire to test my powers against your mermaid, and I'll wager you anything you like that yonder old wizard charged your town a pretty penny for ridding the world of that sea-monster."

  "We have nothing to give," said the innkeeper's wife, "but if you can restore my man, I'll give you my gold ring that he gave me when we were wedded. And since he's been enchanted, what kind of man are you if you can't take away one magic with another?" She tugged at her fat finger, and held out the ring, thin and worn, in the palm of her hand. Her fingers clung to it, and there were tears in her eyes, but she held it out valiantly.

  "What kind of man am I?" Lythande asked with an ironic smile. "Like none you will ever see. I have no need of gold, but give me tonight's lodging, and I will do what I can."

  The woman slid the ring back on her hand with shaking fingers. "My best chamber. But, oh, restore him! Or would ye have some supper first?"

  "Work first, then pay," said Lythande. The man was sitting again in the corner by the fire, staring into the flames, and from his lips came a small, tuneless humming. Lythande unslung the lute in its bag, and took it out, bending over the strings. Long, thin fingers strayed over the keys, head bent close as Lythande listened for the sound, tuning and twisting the pegs that held the strings.

  At last, touching the strings, Lythande began to play. As the sound of the lute stole through the big common room, it was as if the chinks letting in the late sun had widened, and the light spread in the room; Lythande played sunlight and the happy breeze on the shore. Softly, on tiptoe, not wanting to let any random sound interrupt the music, the people in the inn stole nearer to listen to the soft notes. Sunlight, the shore winds, the sounds of the soft, splashing waves. Then Lythande began to sing.

  Afterward—and for years, all those who heard often spoke of it—no one could remember what song was sung, though to everyone it sounded familiar, so that every hearer was sure it was a song they had heard at their mother's knee. To everyone it called, in the voice of husband or lover or child or wife, the voice of the one most loved. One old man said, with tears in his eyes, that he had heard his mother singing him to sleep with an old lullaby he had not heard in more than half a century. And at last, even the man who sat by the fire, clothes unkempt and stinking, hair rough and tangled, and his eyes lost in another world, slowly raised his head and turned to listen to the voice of Lythande, soft contralto or tenor; neutral, sexless, yet holding all the sweetness of either sex. Lythande sang of the simple things of the world, of sunlight and rain and wind, of the voices of children, of grass and wind and harvest and the silences of dawn and twilight. Then, the tempo quickening a little, she sang of home and fireside, where the children gathered in the evening, calling to their fathers to come home from the sea. And at last, the soft voice deepening and growing quieter so that the listeners had to lean forward to hear it, yet every whispered note clearly audible even to the rafters of the inn, Lythande sang of love.

  And the eyes of every man widened, and the cheek of every woman reddened to a blush, yet to the innocent children there, every word was innocent as a mother's kiss on their cheek.

  And when the song fell silent, the man by the fire-side raised his head and brushed the tears from his eyes.

  "Mhari, lass," he said hoarsely, "where are ye—ye and the babes—why, ha' I been sitting here the daylong and not out to the fishing? Why, lass, ye're crying, what ails the girl?" And he drew her to his knee and kissed her, and his face changed, and he shook his head, bewildered.

  "Why, I dreamed—I dreamed—" His face contorted, but the woman drew his head down on her breast, and she, too, was weeping.

  "Don't think of it, goodman, ye' were enchanted, but by the mercy of the gods and this good wizard here, ye're safe home and yourself again. ..."

  He rose, his hands straying to his uncombed hair and unshaven chin. "How long? Aye, what devil's magic kept me here? And"—he looked around, seeing Lythande laying the lute in the case—"what brought me back? I owe ye gratitude, Lord Wizard," he said. "All my poor house may offer is at your command." His voice held the dignity of a poor workingman, and Lythande bent graciously to acknowledge it.

  "I will take a lodging for the night, and a meal served in private in my room, no more." And though both the fisherman and his wife pressed Lythande to accept the ring and other gifts, even to the profits of a year's fishing, the wizard would accept nothing more.

  But the others in the room crowded near, clamoring.

  "No such magic has ever been seen in these parts! Surely you can free us, with your magic, from this evil wizardry! We beg you, we are at your mercy—we have nothing worthy of you, but such as we can, we will give. ..."

  Lythande listened, impassive, to the pleading. It was to be expected; magic had been demonstrated, and knowing what it could do, they were greedy for more. Yet it was not greed alone. Their lives and their livelihood were at stake. These poor folk could not continue to live by the fishing if the mermaid continued to lure them onto the rocks, to be wrecked or eaten by sea-monsters, or, if they came safe and alive to their homes, to live on rapt away by the memory.

  Yet what reason could this mermaid have for her evildoing? Lythande was well acquainted with the laws of magic, and magical things did not exercise their powers only out of a desire to make mischief among men. Why, after all, had this mermaid come to sing and enchant these simple shore folk? What could her purpose be?

  "I will have a meal served in private, that I may consider this," the magician said, "and tomorrow I will speak with everyone in the village who has heard this creature's song or looked upon her. And then I will decide whether my magic can do anything for you. Further than that I will not go."

  When the woman had departed, leaving the tray of food, Lythande locked and double-locked the door of the. room behind her. A fine baked fish lay on a clean white napkin—Lythande suspected it was the best of the meager catch brought in by the young girls, which alone kept the village from starving. The fish was seasoned with fragrant herbs, and there was a hot, coarse loaf of maize-bread, with butter and cream, and a dish of sweet boiled seaweed on the tray.

  First Lythande cast about the room, the Blue Star blazing between the narrow brows, seeking hidden spyholes or magical traps. Eternal vigilance was the price of safety for any Adept of the Blue Star, even in a village as isolated as this one. It was not likely that some enemy had trailed Lythande here, nor prearranged a trap, but stranger things had happened in the Adept's long life.

  But the room was nowhere overlooked and seemed impregnable, so that at last Lythande was free to take off the voluminous mage-robe and even to ungird the belt with the two swords, and draw off the soft dyed-leather boots. So revealed, Lythande presented still the outward appearance of a slender, beardless man, tall and strongly framed and sexless; yet, free of observation, Ly
thande was revealed as what she was; a woman. Yet a woman who might never be known to be so in the sight of any living man.

  A masquerade that had become truth; for into the Temple of the Pilgrim-Adepts, Lythande alone in all their long history had successfully penetrated in male disguise. Not till the Blue Star already shone between her brows, symbol and sign of Adepthood, had she been discovered and exposed; and by then she was sacrosanct, bearing their innermost secrets. And then the Master of the Pilgrim-Adepts had laid on her the doom she still bore.

  "So be it; be then in truth what you have chosen to seem. Till Law and Chaos meet in that Final Battle where all things must die, be what you have pretended; for on that day when any Pilgrim-Adept save myself shall proclaim your true sex, on that day is your power forfeit and you may be slain."

  So together with all the vows that fenced about the power of a Pilgrim-Adept, Lythande bore this burden as well; that of concealing her true sex to the end of the world.

  She was not, of course, the only Adept heavily burdened with a geas; every Adept of the Blue Star bore some such Secret in whose concealment, even from other Adepts of the Order, lay all his magic and all his strength. Lythande might even have a woman confidante, if she could find one she could trust with her life and her powers.

  The minstrel-Adept ate the fish, and nibbled at the boiled seaweed, which was not to her taste. The maize bread, well wrapped against grease, found its way into the pockets of the mage-robe, against some time when she might not be able to manage privacy for a meal and must snatch a concealed bite as she traveled.