“Will you tell me of your quest?” asked the woman gaily. “Perhaps one of us can lighten your load?”
“I think not,” said Lythande arrogantly. She had never had a very high opinion of women, and did not believe that the magical thing she carried would bestow itself upon this coarse, jolly woman, red-handed and vulgar. Surely this could be only some fortuitous guidance on the steps of her quest, to indicate the direction she should take—no more. “Yet, if you will have it so, I will travel in your company.”
“Be it so,” said the woman. “All are welcome to share our road; and it may be that the Gods have sent us your way. Who knows? We may even have some part in your quest. Nothing is accidental, brother of magic.”
“Indeed,” Lythande said politely; but secretly she was not pleased to think that she had anything much in common with this sorceress. Those great red hands could hardly be given to the uses of the High magic; they were only fit to such hedge-magics as souring a farm wife’s milk within the churn. Such a one to put herself on a footing with an Adept of the Blue Star? Lythande gave a secret shudder and resolved that she would stay in the company of these pilgrims not an instant longer than necessary.
“Let us be off, then,” she said. It might be that in their holy city, they would encounter a great Sorceress fit to become the custodian of the Chalice of Tears—which after all had chosen Lythande herself as its temporary Guardian. Surely she must not bestow it upon any lesser than herself.
The fine misting rain had turned into a steady downpour. Lythande was not too much troubled, for the grey mage-robe was almost impervious to weather; but the women in the procession looked like so many wet cats. The woman leading the pilgrims grunted dolefully.
“You bring us ill fortune, magician. Will you not tell us of your quest?”
“I think not, at least not at present,” said Lythande, thinking that this downpour might be the element of water telling her she was on the right track—surely no more than that. “Let us press on. For my quest has to do with the very elements themselves.”
“So be it, my brother, if you say so,” answered the woman, looking wistfully at the shape of lute beneath Lythande’s robes. “While this weather continues, we can have no music; for the rain would damage your instrument.”
“That it might,” said Lythande, wondering crossly how long she would be marooned in this company. “Let us onward.”
They slogged through rain for most of the day. Dusk had fallen when at last they came to an inn. Its sign bore the device of a bush of painted thistles and the words, ‘The House of Necessity’.
“This is surely a sign to me,” Lythande thought, “for I am driven by necessity.”
“I think we must halt here,” said the woman at the head of the pilgrims, “for our company numbers three dozen or more, and there is no other shelter for many miles on this rain-blighted moor. And its name is a sign to us, for surely we have been brought here by necessity.”
“Quite,” thought Lythande, certain that the sign had been for her. Indeed, how could it be otherwise? She gladly entered the welcoming inn, and took off her robes. She ate a hearty meal, for there were only women within the company; the geas which forbade Lythande to eat or drink in sight of any living man was completely literal, and did not forbid her to satisfy her hunger and thirst in the sight of any number of women. After her meal, and weary with walking, she began to prepare herself for sleep; but before she settled into her mage-robe, the women’s leader asked, “Will you not give us a song, minstrel?”
“Gladly,” replied Lythande, not sorry to have a good excuse for displaying her talents in this company. She sang a song of sorrowing Quest which sounded like the wild and stormy sea off her native coast.
“Such a song of woe,” commented the group’s leader. “If there is such sadness in your heart, minstrel, may I, Manuela, not share your burden? For I can see that it is heavy, Minstrel, and it has been laid on us that we should share one another’s burdens and sorrows.”
“It is not the time,” said Lythande. She did not think this commoner sorceress could be of any help to her in much of anything, let alone her Quest; nor had she any love for being called ‘brother’ and so put upon an equal footing with this hedge-witch Manuela. But she said nothing more, and went to sleep in one of the smaller rooms, for she would not share a common chamber with the pilgrims.
When she woke, the sun was streaming through the windows, but that was not what had wakened her. It was a cry of consternation from the room in which the pilgrims had slept.
“Alas! We are marooned!” Lythande sprang to the window. During the night, a dam had burst, and the inn was completely surrounded by water. Fortunately, the inn was on a small rise, or they might have been washed away and drowned.
“Bother,” thought Lythande. “Now I can neither pursue my Quest nor rid myself of these women; for good or ill, the Fates have cast me into their company.”
Manuela echoed her thoughts as she came into the room. “Alas, my brother,” she cried, “the Fates have abandoned you, for how can you fulfill your Quest now? It is worse for you than for us; since we are pilgrims through life, our Quest may be fulfilled wherever the Fates choose to send us, but I can tell it is not so with you.”
“It is not,” said Lythande. “But as the Fates send me, so I must abide.”
Manuela said hesitantly, “Are you sure I cannot be of any aid in your quest, brother magician? For it seems to me that there is something more than coincidence in our meeting. You are, I am sure, a great and powerful magician; but if I can serve you in anything—”
“I think not,” said Lythande. “Yet I thank you for your good will, Manuela.”
The water did not go down that day. Just before evening, the women were gathered in the main room of the inn, where Lythande was diverting herself by playing on the lute. Suddenly, there was a great rumbling noise, and the floor seemed to shake itself and rock. The women clung together in fright, crying out.
“What was that? Brother magician, what was that?”
“Only an earthquake,” murmured Lythande, shaken. Again the ground shook, and then settled; floods, and then earthquake! She must make haste; for if this were the Grail ruling the elements, first the element of water, signifying flood, and then the earthquake—the element of earth—what could have gone so amiss? She must make haste with her quest, or worse might follow. Yet marooned in this inn, alone with these women, how could she continue the search for the Guardian of the Grail?
She could not cross the barrier of waters unless they went down substantially. Could it be that the Guardian was here—either among the pilgrims, or perhaps the keeper of the inn herself?
Lythande sought out the Innkeeper. She was a big woman, and looked like any of a hundred other women, wrapped in her great apron. Lythande’s heart sank, but she felt compelled to ask.
“Mistress Innkeeper, are there other guests at the Inn? Other magicians, mayhap, who did not join with us in the common room last night? Those, perhaps, who bade you keep their presence secret?”
“No, my lord Magician. Only yourselves, and the pilgrim women. But did you not know that the leader of your company, one Manuela, is a great magician? Perhaps it is of her that you speak.”
“I am sure it is not,” said Lythande. “I am only by chance in her company.” It vexed her that the Innkeeper should compare these hedge-witches with an Adept of the Blue Star. But for the moment she was marooned in their company; she must even bide with them until the Keeper of the Grail should see fit to come to her.
Dismissing her worries, Lythande went to her room and lay down. Soon she fell asleep, just before sunrise, she was jolted out of sleep by an earthquake, this one considerably more violent than the others.
“Look for that which repeats” thought Lythande. And suddenly, a look of utter consternation filled her face. “What a donkey I am, to be sure! Perhaps her goddess thought I needed a lesson in humility.”
She sought out the common ro
om where the pilgrims, clustered about Manuela, were kneeling and praying that the elements might turn away their wrath. Far out in the water surrounding them, Lythande could see an ominous bubble of fire—a volcano! The element of fire was about to join its fellow elements. Lythande knelt hastily beside Manuela, who broke off in her prayers.
“Yes, my brother magician?”
Lythande knelt and drew forth from the mage-robe the silks concealing the Grail. “I think I am guided to bear this to you,” said Lythande. “It may be that the gods who own this thing think I need a lesson in humility.” And suddenly Lythande felt long unaccustomed tears blurring her eyes.
Manuela rose to her feet. Her round, good-natured face seemed to glow; she held out her hand and said, “My brother—no, my sister—I wondered how long it would take you to get around to telling me about it. For when the waters rose, I guessed; and when the earthquakes shook us, I was nearly certain.
Her drably-draped form seemed to take on height and power; she raised the grail above her, in a ritual gesture older than time.
Beyond the window, the waters were receding in the dim light of early dawn. “You can be on your way, magician, “ said Manuela, smiling. “I will care for the grail. And you, be not too quick to judge your fellow man—or woman. Oh, and forget not to break your fast before you go,” she added, with homely sternness.
“So it is ordained,” Lythande replied, and went to speak to the innkeeper about breakfast. Having surrendered the Chalice of Tears, she no longer felt like weeping. In fact, Manuela was right; she was hungry.
To Kill the Undead
Almost the first thing which Lythande had learned to do when first she came into any village was to look about for a wineshop or an inn. Because although one of the laws by which such an Adept lived was that she might never be seen to eat or drink by any man, yet for the price of a bowl of soup or a cup of wine, she could sit and listen as long as she liked to the gossip of the village and find out whether anyone in the area was in need of the services of a mercenary magician—and put her in the way of earning her bread.
On this particular evening she had walked a long time and was very weary, so she did not immediately make herself known, but sat for some time listening to the quiet rumor of voices about her.
At first, she was so tired that the voices rose and fell over her head almost without making an impression. Then she heard one voice saying aloud, “But what is this creature? It prowls by night, and tears out the throats of its victims; yet with the light it vanishes away, and lies in hiding all the day? Is that any natural beast, or some evil thing out of legend?”
“A wolf?” suggested another voice.
“Not by any means,” replied the first voice. “A wolf is not unlike a big dog; and every wolf I have known is gentler and more timid than any dog. I have reared many wolves taken from the wild as pups, and never did I know any wild wolf but hunted in a pack. This killer hunts alone.”
“Wolves are like other beasts,” the first argued, “and no beast so tame but it can turn rogue. It might well be such a wolf turned rogue—but I say this is no natural beast.”
“A werewolf, maybe?” sneered the first.
“As likely a werewolf as anything else,” said the first gloomily. “But then perhaps it is only a matter of finding what shape it wears by day—and hunting it down in that shape.”
At this point, Lythande straightened up. Her long aristocratic-looking feet were stretched out to the fire. She slowly lowered them to the stone floor and said, in that carefully neutral voice, “I know something of werewolves. How do you know this thing which preys upon your people is a werewolf?”
“What else could it be?” demanded the first speaker truculently. “To hunt by night and tear out the throat of its victims?”
“I can think of many things,” Lythande answered carefully. “For all you say, it could still be some form of wild animal: a wolverine, perhaps; or an escaped lion from a menagerie. A captive tiger, or some other predator escaped its owner. Or, if you are speaking of supernatural creatures, why a werewolf, rather than a vampire or night-ghast or some similar creature?”
“Why not indeed?” demanded the first speaker.
“Tell me,” Lythande asked, “does it hunt by night? Is there any way to see something it has attacked?”
A sturdy farmer spoke up, “In my barn, magician, is a sheep it has killed. You are welcome to see it—any of you.”
Lythande slid her battered sandals on her feet, and several of the others rose and followed the farmer into a nearby barn. There, by the light of a lantern hanging from a rafter, lay a dead sheep, lacerated and much torn.
Lythande knelt down by the dead animal. From the tingling of the blue star on her forehead she could tell she was in the presence of some powerful magic. “It might well be victim of a werewolf or vampire at that. So what then can we do about it?”
“Can you kill this thing? This—vampire or whatever?”
“No,” said Lythande. “By definition, a vampire is already dead. There is no way to kill the dead. I can do many things but to kill the dead is not among them.”
That silenced them all for a moment. Then the innkeeper said tentatively, “Then can you—do away with this thing, dead or alive? If it is—for instance—a werewolf?”
“Be the Gods willing, I can,” Lythande said.
The innkeeper said, “I know something of magicians, I dassay you will charge this village a pretty price for getting rid of this thing.”
“Alas,” Lythande said, “even a magician must somehow get a living. Is the presence of this thing not losing you much in the way of profit that you can gain if I rid you of it?”
“Thass true,” said one of the farmers. “We can’t even sell the dead sheep at market—an’ if this thing gets much worse, we’ll all lose all our sheep an’ go broke. I’d say hire the magician now to get rid of this thing—an’ pay him a decent wage afore we all of us loses our living.”
“Thass true,” said another farmer. “I suggest every farmer in this village gives half a silver piece. That way no one of us has to pay the whole thing.”
Lythande looked around the room. Even at a quarter silver apiece she would make a good fee, for there were thirty men or so in the room. She checked both the scabbards hanging at her belt; the right-hand sword of steel, for footpad or villain, the left-hand sword for ghost or supernatural monster or any creature from the realms of magic. Then she bent to the floor and again slipped her battered shoes on her feet, tying them securely round her ankles. If she survived this battle, she thought, she must find out if there was a sandal-maker or shoe-cobbler in this village, and spend a piece or two of her silver to have new shoes made or the old ones botched together. These were as filled with holes as if they had been left out in the winter rains. For the moment, she murmured a spell which would give the road-worn bits of leather some semblance of wholeness; she did not wish the locals to see how battered they were, but this spell could last only a certain length of time.
There was no sense in delaying. Lythande went out into the star-sprinkled night and took up her station in the corral where the town’s animals were kept. She had hoped to spend most of this evening with feet to the fire, but the chance of earning such a fee should not be put off. Wrapping herself in the warm folds of her mage-robe, Lythande took up a station by the fence and settled down to wait and watch.
The night dragged; it was damp and cold, and Lythande wished she had had leisure to have a cup of hot soup unobserved. As always, she had in the pockets of her mage-robe some pieces of dried fruit, and she chewed glumly on a handful of raisins without enthusiasm as she waited. The moon had set when she heard a soft padding sound and saw in the darkness two green and luminescent points of light at the very edge of the sheepfold. Lythande swallowed a raisin and in the darkness made certain her swords were loose in their sheaths.
And then she remembered. Months ago, in being pursued by the Walker Behind, she had struck with
her magical dagger—and it had been destroyed—melted away, disappeared. In effect, then, she was unarmed against this thing if it were any form of magical creature. Her regular steel dagger was unharmed, not that a regular dagger of ordinary steel would be that much good against a werewolf or vampire. In the faint greenish light of ambient magic, Lythande examined what was left of the blade of the magical spelled one.
Not much: beyond the hilt only some three inches of twisted, melted metal remained. It shone faintly in the dimness with its own eerie light. Would it then be any defense against the uncanny green eyes still visible at the edge of the field?
Lythande could only try. The strength of the enchanted blade was not in its metal—of that there might be little left—but then, it might well have been drained of its magic too, in her confrontation with the Walker Behind. Lythande had no idea whether the faint tingle she now felt in the Blue Star was from the broken magical dagger, from the magical beast she could faintly see and sense approaching, from her own ambient magical senses and the Blue Star itself, or from something else unseen in the darkness.
It was near her now. She whispered a spell which would temporarily void the air of all magic near her, even including her own. This way she would be able to diagnose whether the thing approaching her were any natural creature or a thing of magic. The fact that for a few seconds of the spell she would also be at the mercy of the thing, whatever it might be, was not important; she had to know.
Sure enough, the green eyes vanished, but Lythande knew perfectly well that the terrible creature had not gone away, it was only that without magic she could no longer perceive it. The chance that it was not magical had always been very small, but she had to examine it.
She pulled the broken magical dagger from its sheath. Broken or no, it was all she had to face the creature. With the broken remnant she struck out at the gleaming green eyes, and at the same time she murmured the strongest banishing-spell in her repertoire. She did not think it was strong enough, not for this creature, but it was all she had.
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