Bradley, Marion Zimmer - SSC 03

by Lythande (v2. 1)

  She need not try to remember. That had been long, long ago, in a country so far from here that no living man within a ten-day's journey knew so much as the name of that country. So why remember? She knew the answer to that; this sea-creature, this mermaid, defended itself this way, reaching into her mind and memory, as it had reached into the mind and memory of the fishermen who sought to pass by it, losing them in a labyrinth of the past, of old loves, heart's desires. Lythande repressed a shudder, remembering the man seated by the fire, lost in his endless dream. How narrowly had she escaped that? And there would have been none to rescue her.

  But a Pilgrim-Adept was not to be caught so simply. The creature was simple, using on her its only defense, forcing the mind and memory: and she had escaped. Desireless, Lythande was immune to that call of desire.

  Young girl as she looked, that at least must be illusion, the mermaid was an ageless creature . . . like herself, Lythande thought.

  For the creature had tried for a moment to show herself to Lythande in that illusory form of a past .lover—no, he had never been Lythande's lover, but in the form of an old memory to trap her in the illusory country of heart's desire. But Lythande had never been vulnerable in that way to the heart's desire.

  Never?

  Never, creature of dreams. Not even when I was younger than you appear now to be.

  But was this the mermaid's true form, or something like it? The momentary illusion vanished, the mermaid had returned to the semblance of the young girl, touch-ingly young; there must then be some truth to the appearance of the childish mouth, the eyes that were full of dreams, the vulnerable smile. The mermaiden was protecting itself in the best way it could, for certainly a sea-maiden so frail and defenseless, seeming so young and fair, would be at the mercy of the men of the fisherfolk, men who would see only a maiden to be preyed upon.

  There were many such tales along these shores, still told around the hearthfires, of mermaids and of men who had loved them. Men who had taken them home as wives, bringing a free sea-maiden to live in the smoke of the hearthfire, to cook and spin, servant to man, a mockery of the free creature she should be. Often the story ended when the imprisoned sea-maiden found her dress of fish scales and seaweed and plunged into the sea again to find her freedom, leaving the fisherman to mourn his lost love.

  Or the loss of his prisoner . . . ? In this case, Lythande's sympathy was with the mermaid.

  Yet she had pledged herself to free the village of this danger. And surely it was a danger, if only of a beauty more terrible than they dared to know and understand, a fragile and fleeting beauty like the echo of a song, or like the sea wrack in the ebb and flow of the tide. For with illusion gone, the mermaid was only this frail-looking creature, ageless but with the eternal illusion of youth. We are alike, thought Lythande; in that sense, we are sisters, but I am freer than she is.

  She was beginning to be aware of the mermaid's song again, and knew it was dangerous to listen. She sang to herself to try and block it away from her awareness. But she felt an enormous sympathy for the creature, here at the. mercy of a crude fishing village, protecting herself as best she could, and cursed for her beauty.

  She looked so like one of the young girls Lythande had known in that faraway country. They had made music together on the harp and the lute and the bamboo flute. Her name had been . . . Lythande found the name in her mind without a search . . . her name had been Riella, and it seemed to her that the mermaid sang in Riella's voice.

  Not of love, for already at that time Lythande had known that such love as the other young girls dreamed of was not for her, but there had been an awareness between them. Never acknowledged; but Lythande had begun to know that even for a woman who cared nothing for mans desire, life need not be altogether empty. There were dreams and desires that had nothing to do with those simpler dreams of the other women, dreams of husband or lover or child.

  And then Lythande heard the first syllable of a name, a name she had vowed to forget, a name once her own, a name she would not—no. No. A name she could not remember. Sweating, the Blue Star blazing with her anger, she looked at the rocks. Riella's form there wavered and was gone.

  Again the creature had attempted to call to her in the voice of the dead. There was no longer the least trace of amusement in Lythande's mind. Once again she had almost fatally underestimated the sea-creature because it looked so young and childlike, because it reminded her of Riella and of the other young girls she had loved in a world, and a life, long lost to her. She would not be caught that way again. Lythande gripped the hilt of the left-hand dagger, warder against magic, as she felt the boat beneath her scrape on the rocks.

  She stepped out onto the surface of the small, rocky holt, wrinkling her nose at the rankness of dead fish and sea wrack left by the tide, a carrion smell—how could so young and fair a creature live in this stench?

  The mermaid said in the small voice of a very young girl, "Did they send you to kill me, Lythande?"

  Lythande gripped the handle of her left-hand dagger. She had no wish to engage in conversation with the creature; she had vowed to rid the village of this thing, and rid it she would. Yet even as she raised the dagger, she hesitated.

  The mermaid, still in that timid little-girl voice, said, "I admit that I tried to ensnare you. You must be a great magician to escape from me so easily. My poor magic could not hold you at all!"

  Lythande said, "I am an Adept of the Blue Star."

  "I do not know of the Blue Star. Yet I can feel its power," said the sea-maiden. "Your magic is very great—"

  "And yours is to flatter me," said Lythande carefully, and the mermaid gave a delicious, childish giggle.

  "You see what I mean? I can't deceive you at all, can -I, Lythande? But why did you come here to kill me, when I can't harm you in any way? And why are you holding that horrible dagger?"

  Why, indeed? Lythande wondered, and slid it back into its sheath. This creature could not hurt her. Yet surely she had come here for some reason, and she groped for it. She said at last, "The folk of the village cannot fish for their livelihood and they will all starve. Why do you want to do this?"

  "Why not?" asked the mermaid innocently.

  That made Lythande think a little. She had listened to the villagers and their story; she had not stopped to consider the mermaid's side of the business. The sea did not belong, after all, to the fishermen; it belonged to the fish and to the creatures of the sea—birds and fish and waves, shellfish of the deep, eels and dolphins and great whales who had nothing to do with humankind at all—and, yes, to the mermaids and stranger sea creatures as well.

  Yet Lythande was vowed to fight on the side of Law against Chaos till the Final Battle should come. And if humankind could not get its living as did the other creatures inhabiting the world, what would become of them?

  "Why should they live by killing the fish in the sea?" the mermaid asked. "Have they any better right to survive than the fish?"

  That was a question not all that easily answered. Yet as she glanced about the shore, smelling the rankness of the tide, Lythande knew what she should say next.

  "You live upon the fish, do you not? There are enough fish in the sea for all the people of the shore, as well as for your kind. And if the fishermen do not kill the fish and eat them, the fish will only be eaten by other fish. Why not leave the fisherfolk in peace, to take what they need?"

  "Well, perhaps I will," said the mermaid, giggling again, so that Lythande was again astonished; what a childish creature this was, after all. Did she even know what harm she had done?

  "Perhaps I can find another place to go. Perhaps you could help me?" She raised her large and luminous eyes to Lythande. "I heard you singing. Do you know any new songs, magician? And will you sing them to me?"

  Why, the poor creature is like a child; lonely, and even restless, all alone here on the rocks. How like a child she was when she said it. . . . Do you know any new songs? Lythande wished for a moment that she had not l
eft her lute on the shore.

  "Do you want me to sing to you?"

  "I heard you singing, and it sounded so sweet across the water, my sister. I am sure we have songs and magics to teach one another."

  Lythande said gently, "I will sing to you."

  First she sang, letting her mind stray in the mists of time past, a song she had sung to the sound of the bamboo reed-flute, more than a lifetime ago. It seemed for a moment that Riella sat beside her on the rocks. Only an illusion created by the mermaid, of course. But surely a harmless one! Still, perhaps it was not wise to allow the illusion to continue; Lythande wrenched her mind from the past, and sang the sea-song that she had composed yesterday, as she walked along the shore to this village.

  "Beautiful, my sister," murmured the mermaid, smiling so that the charming little gap in her pearly teeth showed. "Such a musician I have never heard. Do all the people who live on land sing so beautifully?"

  "Very few of them," said Lythande. "Not for many years have I heard such sweet music as yours."

  "Sing again, Sister," said the mermaid, smiling. "Come close to me and sing again. And then I shall sing to you."

  "And you will come away and let the fisherfolk live in peace?" Lythande asked craftily.

  "Of course I will, if you ask it, Sister," the mermaid said. It had been so many years since anyone had spoken to Lythande, woman to woman, without fear. It was death for her to allow any man to know that she was a woman; and the women in whom she dared confide were so few. It was soothing balm to her heart.

  Why, after all, should she go back to the land again? Why not stay here in the quiet peace of the sea, sharing songs and magical spells with her sister, the mermaid? There were greater magics here than she had ever known, yes, and sweeter music, too.

  She sang, hearing her voice ring out across the water. The mermaid sat quietly, her head a little turned to the side, listening as if in utter enchantment, and Lythande felt she had never sung so sweetly. For a moment she. wondered if, hearing her song echoing from the ocean, any passerby would think that he heard the true song of a mermaid. For surely she, too, Lythande, could enchant with her song. Should she stay here, cease denying her true sex, where she could be at once woman and magician and minstrel? She, too, could sit on the rocks, enchanting with her music, letting time and sea roll over her, forgetting the struggle of her life as Pilgrim-Adept, being only what she was in herself. She was a great magician; she could feel the very tingle of her magic in the Blue Star on her brow, crackling lightings. . . .

  "Come nearer to me, Sister, that I can hear the sweetness of your song," murmured the mermaid. "Truly, it is you who have enchanted me, magician—"

  As if in a dream, Lythande took a step farther up the beach. A shell crunched hard under her foot. Or was it a bone? She never knew what made her look down, to see that her foot had turned on a skull.

  Lythande felt ice run through her veins. This was no illusion. Quickly she gripped the left-hand dagger and whispered a spell that would clear the air of illusion and void all magic, including her own. She should have done it before.

  The mermaid gave a despairing cry. "No, no, my sister, my sister musician, stay with me . . . now you will hate me too. ..." But even as the words died out, like the fading sound of a lute's broken string, the mermaid was gone, and Lythande stared in horror at what sat on the rocks.

  It was not remotely human in form. It was three or four times the size of the largest sea-beast she had ever seen, crouching huge and greenish, the color of seaweed and sea wrack. All she could see of the head was rows and rows of teeth, huge teeth gaping before her. And the true horror was that one of the great fangs had a chip knocked from it.

  Little pearly teeth with a little chip. . . .

  Gods of Chaos! I almost walked down that things throat!"

  Retching, Lythande swung the dagger; almost at once she whipped out the right-hand knife, which was effective against material menace; struck toward the heart of the thing. An eerie howl went up as blackish green blood, smelling of sea wrack and carrion, spurted over the Pilgrim-Adept. Lythande, shuddering, struck again and again until the cries were silent. She looked down at the dead thing, the rows of teeth, the tentacles and squirming suckers. Before her eyes was a childish face, a voice whose memory would never leave her.

  And I called the thing "Sister". . . .

  It had even been easy to kill. It had no weapons, no defenses except its song and its illusions. Lythande had been so proud of her ability to escape the illusions, proud that she was not vulnerable to the call of lover or of memory.

  Yet it had called, after all, to the heart's desire . . . for music. For magic. For the illusion of a moment where something that never existed, never could exist, had called her "Sister," speaking to a womanhood renounced forever. She looked at the dead thing on the beach, and knew she was weeping as she had not wept for three ordinary lifetimes.

  The mermaid had called her "Sister," and she had killed it.

  She told herself, even as her body shook with sobs, that her tears were mad. If she had not killed it, she would have died in those great and dreadful rows of teeth, and it would not have been a pleasant death.

  Yet for that illusion, 1 would have been ready to die. . . .

  She was crying for something that had never existed.

  She was crying because it had never existed, and because, for her, it would never exist, not even in memory. After a long time, she stooped down' and, from the mass that was melting like decaying seaweed, she picked up a fang with a chip out of it. She stood looking at it for a long time. Then, her lips tightening grimly, she flung it out to sea, and clambered back into the boat. As she sculled back to shore, she found she was listening to the sound in the waves, like a shell held to the ear. And when she realized that she was listening again for another voice, she began to sing the rowdiest drinking song she knew.

  Introduction to The Wandering Lute

  Once, not too many years ago, Robert Adams and Andre Norton got together to do an anthology about a magical world they called The Fair at Ithkar. The theory seemed to me not unlike Thieves World, and so I created a Lythande story just for Ithkar—but Adams Norton rejected the story because, forsooth, Lythande was "associated with Thieves World"—even though I had withdrawn from Thieves World after the first volume, and for all intents and purposes withdrawn Lythande too.

  The character—and her salamander—who introduces Lythande to this story is from the first Ithkar volume, in a story called "Cold Spell," by Elisabeth Waters, and her name and attributes are used by permission.

  Lythande, as we learned in "Somebody Else's Magic," is not as good at unblnding-spells as she is at other kinds of magic. Maybe she needs more detachment?

  THE WANDERING LUTE

  In the glass bowl the salamander hissed blue fire. Lythande bent over the bowl, extending numbed white fingers; the morning chill at Old Gandrin nipped nose and fingers. At a warning hiss from the bowl, the magician stepped back, looking questioningly at the young candlemaker.

  "Does he bite?"

  "Her name is Alnath," Eirthe said. "She usually doesn't need to."

  "Allow me to beg her pardon," Lythande said. "Essence of Fire, may I borrow your warmth?"

  Fire streamed upward; Lythande bent gratefully over the bowl; Alnath coiled within, a miniature dragon, flames streaming upward from the fire elemental's substance.

  "She likes you," said Eirthe. "When Prince Tashgan came here, she hissed at him and the silk covering of his lute began to smolder; he went out faster than he came in."

  The hood of the mage-robe was thrown back, and by the light of the fire streaming upward, the Blue Star could be clearly seen on Lythande's high, narrow forehead.

  "Tashgan? I know him only by reputation," Lythande said, "Will you-enjoy living in a palace, Eirthe? Will Her Brilliance adapt kindly to a bowl of jewels and diamonds?"

  Eirthe giggled, for Prince Tashgan was known throughout Old Gandrin as a womanizer. "He
was looking for you, Lythande. How do you feel about life in a palace?"

  "For me? What need could the prince have of a mercenary-magician?

  "Perhaps," Eirthe said, "he wishes to take music lessons." She nodded at the lute slung across the magician's shoulder. "I have heard Tashgan play at three summer-festivals, and he plays not half so well as you. The lute is not his best instrument." She giggled, with a suggestive roll of her eyes.

  . Lythande enjoyed a raunchy joke as well as anyone; the magician's mellow chuckle filled the room. "It is frequently so with those who take up the lute for pleasure. As for those who wear a crown, who can tell them their playing could be bettered, whatever the instrument? Flattery ruins much talent."

  "Tashgan wears no crown, nor ever will," Eirthe said. "The High-lord of Tschardain had three sons— know you not the story?"

  "Is he the third son of Tschardain? I had heard he was in exile," Lythande said, "but I have only passed briefly through Tschardain."

  "The old King had a stroke, seven years ago; while he lingered, paralyzed and unable to speak, his older son assumed the power; his second son became his brother's adviser and marshal of his armies. Tashgan was, they said, weak, absentminded, and a womanizer; I daresay it was only that the young Lord wanted few claimants to challenge his position."

  She bent to rummage briefly under her worktable and pulled out a silk-wrapped bundle. "Here are the candles you ordered. Remember that they're spelled not to burn unless they're in one of Cadmon's glasses—though you can probably find a counter-spell easily enough."

  "One of Cadmon's glasses I have already." Lythande took the candles, but lingered, close to the salamander's heat. Eirthe glanced at the lute on an embroidered leather band across Lythande's shoulder.