She asked, "Were you magician first or minstrel? It seems a strange combination."
"I was musician from childhood," Lythande said, "and when I took up magic I deserted my first love. But the lute is a forgiving mistress." The magician bestowed the packet of candles in one of the concealed pockets in the dark mage-robe, bowed in courtly fashion to Eirthe, and murmured to the salamander:
"Essence of Fire, my thanks for your warmth."
A streamer of cobalt fire surged upward out of the bowl; leaped to Lythande's outstretched hand. Lythande did not flinch as the salamander perched for a moment on the slender wrist, though it left a red mark. Eirthe whistled faintly in surprise.
"She never does that to strangers!" The girl glanced at the callus on her own wrist where the salamander habitually rested.
"She is like a were-dragon made small in appearance." Hearing that, Alnath hissed again, stretching out her long fiery neck, and as Eirthe watched in astonishment, Lythande stroked the flaming scales. "Perhaps she knows we are kindred spirits; she is not the first fire-elemental I have known," said the magician. "A good part of the business of an adept is playing with fire. There, fair Essence of the purest of all Elements, go to your true Mistress." Lythande raised an arm in a graceful gesture; streamers of fire seared the air as Alnath flashed toward Eirthe's wrist and came to rest there. "Should Tashgan seek me again, tell him I lodge at the Blue Dragon."
But Lythande saw Prince Tashgan before Eirthe did.
The Adept was seated in the common-room of the Blue Dragon, a pot of ale untouched on the table—for one of the many vows fencing the powers of an Adept of the Blue Star was that they might never be seen to eat or drink before strangers. Nevertheless, the pot of ale was the magician's unquestioned passport to sit among the townsfolk and listen to whatever might be happening among them.
"Will you favor us with a song, High-born?" asked the innkeeper. The Pilgrim Adept uncovered the lute and began to play a ballad of the countryside. As the soft notes stole into the room, the drinkers fell silent, listening to the mellow sound of Lythande's voice, soft, neutral, and sexless.
As the last note died away, a tall, richly clad man, standing at the back of the room, came forward.
"Master Minstrel, I salute you," he said. "I had heard from afar of your skill with the lute and came here a little before my proper season, to hear you play and— other things. You lodge here? Might I buy you a drink in privacy, Magician? I have heard that your services are for hire; I have need of them."
"I am a mercenary magician," Lythande said, "I give no instruction on the lute."
"Nevertheless let us discuss in private whether it would be worth your while to give me lessons," said the man. "I am Tashgan, son of Idriash of Tschardain."
Some of the watchers in the room had the uneasy sense that the Blue Star on Lythande's brow shrugged itself and focused to look at Tashgan. Lythande said, "So be it. Before the final battle of Law and Chaos many unusual things may come to pass, and for all I know this may well be one of them."
"Will it please you to speak in your chamber, or in mine?"
"Let it be in yours," said Lythande. The items with which any person chose to surround himself could often give the magician an important clue to character; if this prince was to be a client—for the services of magician or minstrel—such clues might prove valuable.
Tashgan had commanded the most luxurious chamber at the Blue Dragon; its original character had almost been obscured by silken hangings and cushions. Elegant small musical instruments—a tambour adorned with silk ribbons, a borain, a pair of serpent rattles, and a gilded sistrum—hung on the wall. As the door opened, a slight girl in a chemise, arms bare and hair loosened and falling in a disheveled cloud over her bared young breasts, rolled from the bed and scurried away behind the hangings. Lythande's face drew together into a frown of distaste.
"Charming, is she not?" asked Tashgan negligently. "A local maiden; I want no permanent ties in this town. Indeed, it is of ties of this sort—undesired ties, and involuntary—that I would speak. Lissini, bring wine from my private stock."
The girl poured wine; Lythande formally lifted the cup without, however, tasting it, and bowed to Tashgan.
"How may I serve your Excellency?"
"It is a long story." Tashgan unfastened the strap of the lute across his shoulder. "What think you of this lute?" His weak, watery blue eyes followed the instrument as he undid the case and displayed it.
Lythande studied the instrument briefly; smaller than Lythande's own lute, exquisitely crafted of fruitwood inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
"I remember not one so fairly crafted since I came into this country."
"Appearances are deceiving," said Tashgan. "This instrument, magician, is at once my curse and my blessing."
"May I?" Lythande put forth a slender hand and touched the delicately fretted neck. The blue star blazed suddenly, and Lythande frowned.
"This lute is under enchantment. This is the long story of which you spoke. The night is young; long live the night. Tell on."
Tashgan signaled to the girl to pour more of the fragrant wine. "Know you what it is to be a third son in a royal line, magician?"
Lythande only smiled enigmatically. Royal birth in a faraway country was a claim made by many rogues and wandering magicians; Lythande never made such a claim. "It is your story, Highness."
"A second son insures the succession and may serve as counselor to the first, but after my elder brothers were safely past childhood ailments, my royal parents knew not what to do with this inconvenient third prince. Had I been a daughter, they could have schooled me for a good marriage, but a third son? Only a possible pretender for factions or a rebel against his brethren. So they cast about to give my life some semblance of purpose, and had me instructed in music."
"There are worse fates," murmured Lythande. "In many lands a minstrel holds honor higher than a prince."
"It is not so in Tschardain," Tashgan gestured for more wine. Lythande lifted the glass and inhaled the delicate bouquet of the wine, without, however, touching or tasting it.
Tashgan went on: "It is not so in Tschardain; therefore I came to Old Gandrin where a minstrel has his own honor. For many years my life has assumed its regular character; guested in the spring on the borders of Tschardain, then northward into Old Gandrin for fair time, and northerly through the summer, to North-wander. Then at the summer's height I turn southward again, through Old Gandrin, retracing my steps, guested and welcomed as a minstrel in castle and manor and at last, for Yule-feast, to Tschardain. There I am welcomed for a hand-span of days by father and brothers. So it has been for twelve years, since I was only a little lad; it changed nothing when my father the High-lord was laid low by a stroke and my brother Rasthan assumed his powers. It seemed that it would go on for a lifetime, till I grew too old to threaten my brother's throne or the throne of his sons."
"It sounds not too ill a life," Lythande observed neutrally.
"Not so indeed," said Tashgan, with a lascivious roll of his eyes. "Here in Old Gandrin, a musician is highly favored, as indeed you did say, and when I am guested in castle and manor—well, I suppose ladies tire of queendom, and a musician who can give them lessons on his instrument—" another suggestive wink and roll of his eyes—"Well, master magician and minstrel, you too bear a lute, I dare say you too could tell tales, if you would, of how women give hospitality to a minstrel."
The blue star on Lythande's brow furrowed again with hidden distaste; the magician said only, "Is there, then, some reason why it cannot go on as you willed it?"
"Say rather as my father and my brother Rasthan willed it," said Tashgan. "They took no chances that I would choose to stay more than my appointed hand of days every year in Tschardain. My father's court magician made for me this lute, and set it about with enchantments, so that my wanderings with the lute would bring me never, for instance, into the country of any noble who might be plotting against Tschardain's throne, or allow
me to linger long enough anywhere to make alliances. Day by day, season by season and year by year, my rounds are as duly set as the rising of sun and moon or the procession of solstice following equinox and back again to solstice; a week here, ten days there, three days in this place and a fortnight in that. ... I cannot tarry in any place beyond my allotted span, for the compulsion in the lute sets me to wandering again.
"And so?"
"And so for many years it was not unwelcome," said Tashgan, "among other things—well, it freed me from the fear that any of those women—" yet once more the suggestive roll of the watery eyes—"would entrap me for more than a little—dalliance. But three moons ago, a messenger from Tschardain reached me. A were-dragon came from the south, and both my brothers perished in his flame. So that I, with no training or inclination to rule, am suddenly the High-lord's only heir—and my father may die at any moment, or linger for another hand of years as a paralyzed figurehead. My father's vizier has bidden me return at once to Tschardain and claim my heritage."
Tashgan slammed his hand with rage on the table, making the lute rattle and the ribbons tremble.
"And I cannot! The enchantment of this accursed lute compels me northward, even to Northwander! If I set out southward to my kingdom, I am racked with queasiness and pain, I can stomach neither food nor wine, nor can I even look on a woman with pleasure till I have set off in the appointed direction for the time of year. I can go nowhere save upon my appointed rounds, for this damnable enchanted lute compels me!"
Lythande's tall narrow body shook with laughter, and Tashgan's ill-natured scowl fixed itself upon the Adept.
"You laugh at my curse, magician?"
"Everything under the sun has a funny side," Lythande said, and struggled to control unseemly laughter. "Bethink yourself, my prince; had this happened to another, would you not find it funny?"
Tashgan's eyes narrowed to slits, but finally he grinned weakly and said, "I fear so. But if it was your predicament, magician, would you laugh?"
Lythande laughed again. "I fear not, highness. And that says much about what folk call amusement. So now tell me; how can I serve you?"
"Is it not obvious from my tale? Take this enchantment off the lute!" Lythande was silent, and Tashgan leaned forward in his chair, demanding aggressively, "Can you take off such a binding-spell, magician?"
"Perhaps I can, if the price is right, highness," Lythande said slowly. "But why put yourself at the mercy of a stranger, a mercenary magician? Surely the court magician who obliged your father would be more than happy to ingratiate himself with his new monarch by freeing you from this singularly inconvenient spell."
"Surely," Tashgan said glumly, "but there is one great difficulty in that. The wizard whom I have to thank—" he weighted the word with another of his ill-natured scowls—"was Ellifanwy."
"Oh." Ellifanwy's messy end in the lair of a were-dragon was known from Northwander to the Southron Sea. Lythande said, "I knew Ellifanwy of old. I told Ellifanwy that she could not handle any were-dragon and proffered my services for a small fee, but she begrudged the gold. And now she lies charred in the caves of the dragonswamp."
"I am not surprised," said Tashgan, "I am sure you will agree with me that women have no business with the High Magic. Small magics, yes, like love charms— and I must say Ellifanwy's love charms were superb," he added, preening himself like a peacock. "But for dragons and such, I think you will agree with me, seeing Ellifanwy's fate, that female wizards should mind their cauldrons and spin love charms."
Lythande did not answer, leaning forward to take up the lute. Again the lightning from the Blue Star on the magician's brow glared in the room.
"So you would have me undo Ellifanwy's spell? That should present no trouble," Lythande said, caressing the lute; slender fingers strayed for a moment over the strings. "What fee will you give?"
"Ah, there lies the problem," said Tashgan, "I have but little gold; the messenger who brought news of the deaths of my brothers expected to be richly rewarded, and I have lived mostly as guest for these many years; given all I could desire, rich food and rich clothing, wine and women, but little in the way of ready money. But if you will unbind this spell, I shall reward you well when you come to Tschardain—"
Lythande smiled enigmatically. "I am well acquainted with the gratitude of kings, highness." Tashgan would hardly wish Lythande's presence in Tschardain, able to tell his future subjects of their new high-lord's former ridiculous plight. "Some other way must be found."
The magician's hands lingered for a moment on Tashgan's lute. "I have taken a fancy to your lute, highness, binding-spell and all. I have long desired to travel to Northwander. But I do not know the way. Do I assume correctly that this lute will keep its bearer on the direct path?"
Tashgan said sourly, "No native guide could do better. Should I ever stray from the path, as I have done once or twice after too much hospitality, the lute would bring me back within a few dozen paces. It is like being a child again, clinging to a nanny's hand!"
"It sounds intriguing," Lythande murmured. "I lost the only lute which meant anything to me in—shall we say, a magical encounter—and had little ready money with which to replace it; but the one I bear now has a fine tone. Exchange lutes with me, noble Tashgan, and I shall travel to Northwander, and deal with the unbinding-spell at my leisure."
Tashgan hesitated only a moment. "Done," he said, ' and picked up Lythande's plain lute, leaving the magician to put the elaborate inlaid one, with its interlaced designs of mother-of-pearl, into its leather case. "I leave for Tschardain at dawn. May I offer you another cup of wine, magician?"
Lythande politely declined, and bowed to Tashgan for leave to withdraw.
"So you will travel to Northwander on my circuit of castle and court? They will welcome you, magician. Good fortune." Tashgan chuckled, with a suggestive roll of his eyes. "There are many ladies bored with ladylike accomplishments. Give my love to Beauty."
"Beauty?"
"You will meet her—and many others—if you follow my lute very far," said Tashgan, licking his lips. "I almost envy you, Lythande; you have not had time to become wearied of their—friendly devices. But," he added, this time with a frank leer, "no doubt there are many new adventures awaiting me in my father's courts."
"I wish you joy of them," said Lythande, bowing gravely. On the stairs, the magician resolved that when the sun rose, Old Gandrin would be far behind. Tashgan might not wish anyone surviving who could tell this tale. True, he had seemed grateful; but Lythande had reason to distrust the gratitude of kings.
Northward from Old Gandrin the hills were steeper; on some of them snow was still lying. Lightly burdened only with pack and lute, Lythande traveled with a long athletic stride that ate up the miles.
Three days north of Old Gandrin, the road forked, and Lythande surveyed the paths ahead. One led down toward a city, dominated by a tall castle; the other led upward, farther into the hills. After a moment's thought, Lythande took the upward road.
For a time, nothing happened. The brilliant sunlight had given Lythande a headache; the magician's eyes narrowed against the sun. After a few more paces, the headache was joined with a roiling queasiness. Lythande scowled, wondering if the bread eaten for breakfast had become tainted. But under the hood of the mage-robe Lythande could feel the burning prickle of the Blue Star.
Magic. Strong magic. . . .
The lute. The enchantment. Of course. Experimentally, Lythande took a few more steps up the forest road. The sickness increased, and the pressure of the Blue Star was painful.
"So," Lythande said aloud, and turned back, retracing the path; then took the road leading down to city and castle. At once the headache diminished, the queasiness subsided, even the air seemed to smell fresher. The Blue Star was again quiescent on Lythande's brow.
"So." Tashgan had not exaggerated the enchantment of the lute. Shrugging slightly, Lythande took the road down into the city, feeling an enthusiasm and haste which was qui
te alien to the magician's own attitude. Magic. But Lythande was no stranger to magic.
Lythande could almost feel the lute's pleasure like a gigantic cat purring. Then the spell was silent and Lythande was standing in the courtyard of the castle.
A liveried servant bowed.
"I welcome you, stranger. May I serve you?"
With a mental shrug, Lythande resolved to test Tashgan's truth. "I bear the lute of Prince Tashgan of Tschardain, who has returned to his own country. I come in the peace of a minstrel."
The servant bowed, if possible, even lower. "In the name of my lady, I welcome you. All minstrels are welcome here, and my lady is a lover of music. Come with me, minstrel, rest and refresh yourself, and I will conduct you to my lady."
So Tashgan had not exaggerated the tales of hospitality. Lythande was conducted to a guest chamber, brought elegant food and wine and offered a luxurious bath in a marble bathroom with water spouting from golden spigots in the shape of dolphins. Guest-garments of silk and velvet were readied by servants.
Alone, unspied-upon (Adepts of the Blue Star have ways of knowing whether they are being watched), Lythande ate modestly of the fine foods, and drank a little of the wine, but resumed the dark mage-robe. Waiting in the elaborate guest quarters, Lythande took the elegant lute from its case, tuned it carefully, and awaited the summons.
It was not long in coming. A pair of deferential servants led Lythande along paneled corridors and into a great salon, where a handsome, richly dressed lady awaited the musician. She extended a slender, perfumed hand.
"Any friend and colleague of Tashgan is my friend as well, minstrel; I bid you a hundred thousand welcomes. Come here." She patted the side of her elegant seat as if—Lythande thought—she was inviting one of the little lapdogs in the salon to jump up into her lap. Lythande went closer and bowed, but an Adept of the Blue Star knelt to no mortal.
"Lady, my lute and I are here to serve you."
"I am so fond of music," she murmured gushingly, and patted Lythande's hand. "Play for me, my dear."
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