Yes, and I too, like every star, am alone.
But, she thought, there is still beer and hot bread. And the spring has come.
Fool’s Fire
“If I owned Hell and Texas, I’d rent out Texas and live in Hell.”
(Source unknown, but he was a wise man.)
Lythande saw in the distance the lights of a village. As she came closer she focused on one in particular, the lantern in the window of an inn.
The magician shifted the heavy pack slung over her mage-robe, and prepared to enter the inn to find out whether anyone in that village had need of the services of a magician. The life of a mercenary who was also a magician was hardly an easy one. Magic, as Lythande was fond of saying, while truly a fine art and of great aesthetic value, in itself put no beans on the table. And no Adept of Lythande’s rank would practice her art for crass cash alone. Lythande was an Adept of the Blue Star, and such magicians could not stoop to the arts of the hedge-wizard or herb-wife. But at least those were assured of a living, while the Adept, who would not sell her magical arts lightly, must often rely on her minstrel’s skills for her supper.
She went into the inn and took a seat, intending to begin by listening to the gossip. A frowsy waitress shambled toward her, and Lythande asked her for a bowl of wine. Not to drink—for the vows under which such Adepts lived forbade that she might ever be seen to eat or drink in the sight of any man. But at such an inn, at the center of village affairs, she could, for the price of a bowl of wine, sit as long as she wished, listen to all the gossip and perhaps hear if anyone in the village had need of such services as hers. Once she had been brought so low that she had had to accept a commission to rid a town of an infestation of wuzzles. Although the creatures were magical, they were so much like rats that Lythande had felt herself not much better than an exterminator.
For a time, Lythande was so cold that she only sat and warmed herself, paying little attention to the talk that ebbed and flowed around her. But as her body thawed, a conversation between two of the villagers worked its way into her consciousness. They spoke of a strange fire that had appeared at some distance in the woods.
“It’s just burnin’ away out there and no one can come near it. Every time I see it, it looks like it’ll set the woods afire.”
“My old man followed it for hours last week and ne’er came nary closer,” another said. “If he wasn’t such a good woodsman he’d a been lost an’ ne’er found his way back at all.”
Lythande pricked up her ears. This sounded as if some form of malevolent magic might be at work. And she knew from experience that where there was magic, there might be work for a mercenary magician—and where there was work there was pay. Perhaps the pockets of her mage-robe, now all but empty of coin, would soon be filled. Even the greatest of Adepts must eat, she thought, and surely something had led her here.
She said to the woman who feared for her husband, “Tell me, is this a magical fire?”
The woman looked at Lythande suspiciously at first, but the attraction of a new audience was overpowering. “It looks to be,” she said, “an I wish it ’ud stop.”
“Maybe no harm’s bein’ done just now,” chimed in the first woman, “but how do we know it’s not the gates of Hell?”
“And here to carry some of us down to Hell with it?” suggested another.
“It may be nothing but a harmless will-o-the wisp,” Lythande said diffidently, though she knew she might talk herself out of a job. “Have you any evidence that it means ill to anyone?”
“No, an’ I don’t need no evidence,” a man broke in. “I don’t hold with no magic. We don’t want no magic around this here place!”
“I truly advise you to let it alone,” said Lythande “Most magic means no harm, and if you let it be it will do the same for you. But if you go seeking it, it may waken to your existence, and then it will be as if you had poked your fingers into a hornet’s nest.”
“But suppose ’tis really the gates of Hell?” asked one of the women. “How can we live knowin’ that’s right at our feet?”
“I cannot see how the gates of Hell right at your feet would make any difference, provided you do not go exploring them—nor let your children go poking sticks through the doors to see them burn,” Lythande observed.
The woman bridled. “Seems to me, magician, it’s everybody’s duty to resist Hell any way we can. Anyway, that’s what the Good Books say.”
Lythande said smoothly, “I am not familiar with your Good Books, but I will grant that if Hell is a place of evil—of which I am not convinced—then it is a worthy duty to resist it.”
“But you’ll allow as there’s Good and Evil,” one asked belligerently.
“I do.”
“Then you’ve got to believe in the Good Books.”
Lythande considered a moment. “Is it permitted to ask why?”
“There’s no other way to be righteous. It’s written in the Good Books that no man is righteous of himself but only by the wisdom that is written in the Good Books.” His voice had taken on the tone of recitation.
“Then we are to believe what is written in your Good Books because the Good Books say so? The logic fails somewhere.” Lythande was coming to the opinion that if these people had no better occupation than this, then Hell was welcome to them. She wanted to rise and depart forthwith, shake the dust of the place off her boots and never enter it again. It hardly seemed likely that the inhabitants would thank her—or pay her—for dealing with their problem magically. But her oath did not recognize such considerations. Good Books or no—it required her to fight evil wherever she might encounter it, from now till the Last Day. Sighing, she bent again to her task.
“Why do you think it the gates of Hell?”
“It burns like no natural fire, and gives off the stink of brimstone,” said one of the men. “The Good Books don’t mention nothin’ else like that. What else could it be?”
“Alas,” said Lythande, “I can suggest nothing without seeing it. And I hesitate to condemn anything without first doing so. Nor have any of you seen it clearly, if I understand you correctly. So I ask again: how can you be sure it is the gates of Hell?”
That silenced them for a moment. Then one woman said, “Well, I ain’t goin’ near it. I’ve tried to live a righteous life and I ain’t throwin’ it away by chasin’ after Hell!”
The muttered response of the crowd agreed that—given that the strange fire most likely was of Hellish origin—no one was particularly eager to make a personal confirmation.
One of the men stepped towards Lythande and said challengingly, “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to take a look, seein’ as you’re not afraid of Hell.”
She sat silently for a moment as if considering the idea. It seemed there might be a paying job here after all. “Someone should look at it, and try to determine what it is before deciding what to do about it,” she said temperately.
“Would you be willin’ to look at our curse?”
“I would,” Lythande said. “I am curious to see this marvel—I would not at this point call it a curse.”
“So what would you call it?” a woman in the crowd asked.
“I would call it mischance,” Lythande said. “I think it a capital mistake to take anything in this universe as personally aimed at us. Whatever happens is probably no more than the gears of the universe grinding. So usually I mind my own business and do not seek to interfere.”
“But it’s up to us to right wrongs,” a woman protested.
“I do not feel myself called to right all the wrongs of the world,” Lythande said. “Surely some of them are none of my business.” All too many of them, she thought, seemed to end up her business.
“I’d call that immoral,” the woman said. “My old ma told me always that it was everybody’s business to right any wrong she saw. Right’s right, and wrong’s wrong, no matter where you find ’em.”
What a dreadful philosophy, Lythande thought. That would make ev
erybody a busybody. But did not say it aloud; she still had hopes of finding work in this village and thought it better not to make too clear to these rigid people how different their notions of morality were. She simply murmured, “Certainly that is a philosophy many people hold,” and left it at that.
One of the men seated by the fire asked, “So you’d be willin’ to go out into the waste an’ see if that there fire is really the gates of Hell?”
“I would—for a suitable fee,” said Lythande. “But,” she warned, “if it is really the gates of Hell, even with my magic I cannot promise to close them.”
“We don’t want nor need magic for that,” said the man grimly. “If so be it’s Hell, we can deal with it ourselves, like it says in the Good Book, with fastin’s an’ prayer.”
Lythande fought the temptation to smile. Will it then fall to me to protect the gates of Hell from an army of enraged villagers? But aloud she only murmured “That must be a great comfort to the mothers of your children.”
He looked at her sharply and said, “If you’re goin’ to go look at it, then don’t just sit there.”
Outside the inn, she was pointed in the direction of the woods. She saw at once what the villagers had meant, and wondered that she hadn’t seen or sensed it on her approach. Far off the reddish glow of a column of fire could be seen, burning away by itself in the waste. At first glance—and maybe even on second or third—it did look rather like the gates of Hell: fierce, red, and glowing away behind the black bars of trees like the grate of a furnace.
As she walked toward it, she realized it was farther away than it looked. It seemed to slip through the trees as she approached, and even at Lythande’s long striding walk, it took her the best part of two hours to come near to it. Now whoever heard, she thought to herself, of Hell avoiding those who pursue it? And what will I do if I find it really is the gates of Hell? Why have I been led here anyhow, among these people who think they know the answers for everyone? It all seemed absurd. Even if she believed in Hell, what would it be doing out here in the wilderness, burning all alone where there were unlikely to be any sinners for it to catch?
And yet the closer she approached, the more her senses—both ordinary and magical—told her that what the villagers feared might be correct. She caught up with the fire at last, examining the sultry glow which beat up as if from the very center of the world. Even as she looked over the edge, she knew it was not literally down under the earth. Here, she thought, among a people who consider themselves to be the most righteous on the face of the land, the gates which were only symbolic for others literally yawned down below. And then, after a long time, she began to understand why it was here, among these narrow people—so sure they knew what was best for everyone—that she should find the gates of Hell.
At last when she had figured out what she must do and say to them—and even perhaps, understood a little of why this task had been laid upon her—she turned about and went back toward the town.
When she left the fire it was chilly again, and she walked briskly to warm herself on the two hour journey back. She found herself again within the inn facing what looked like the same scant half-dozen glum-looking people, seated in the common-room awaiting her return.
“Well,” they greeted her. “Did you find anything? Was the fire truly the gates of Hell?”
Lythande drew her face into a solemn expression. “I found it,” she said, “and I am sorry to tell you that it is truly the gateway of Hell.”
There was a confused outcry—a dozen people all talking at once—the gist of which seemed to be: “What ha’ we done to deserve this?” One woman appealed directly to Lythande. “Alas! What evil have we done, that we should have the very gates of Hell at our doors?”
“Nothing,” said Lythande. “Can you not see what a great honor it is to be trusted with keeping the very gates of Hell?” Which, of course, was one way of putting it, although not the one Lythande would ordinarily have chosen. But knowing these people it was impossible that anyone would stumble unwitting through those gates. The villagers would subject them to so many theological arguments that people would run away before coming into the slightest danger—and likely never return again.
Lythande pocketed her fee, which was not small, but the village was in so much pride of possession that no one protested. One would think, she mused, that Hell would be a popular attraction.
Well, she considered while going down the steps, maybe, in this town, it would.
Here There Be Dragons
When Lythande entered the town, it looked eerie. Pale light from a waning moon spread a thin cold radiance over the deserted streets of the town, In accord with her usual custom, Lythande first looked about for an inn or tavern, where she could for the price of a pot of beer, which she never drank, listen to all the gossip, and see if anyone in the village had need of the services of a mercenary magician.
There was but one inn, and it looked run down. A weak and yellowish lamplight spilled out the window in which Lythande looked. Inside a bare handful of men and women huddled around an ancient dark wooden bar; Lythande looked around to orient herself, and closed her eyes, not really believing what she saw. The population seemed all to have been taken from an ancient engraving in a text on witchcraft she had once seen. Men, women and even a few children all had about them some faint family likeness, something faintly deformed; yet, looking a little more closely, there was no physical deformity. She wondered then if they suffered some spiritual deformity—or if there really was such a thing as a spiritual deformity. It was at least possible that they all suffered some minor physical or other peculiarity too subtle to be identified by anyone unfamiliar with them and without special knowledge.
Oh, this was absurd; what was a spiritual deformity anyhow—or was there any such thing? And what gave her the idea that if there was, she could heal it?
Well, it would make more sense to go inside, rather than standing out here in the cold, gawking, and having neurotic notions about them.
Lythande hoisted her backpack and the embroidered case of light board covered in colored embroidered wools, which contained her harp. She shoved the door open. A blast of heat smote her in the face, smelling of burned meat and the acrid smell of stale beer. Lythande had been hungry; but on smelling the meat in this inn, she felt suddenly that the very thought of food was revolting.
She stepped up to the bar, and asked quietly for a pot of beer. The barman set a large mug before her. He was a an odd little gnome of a man with queerly pointed ears who looked, Lythande thought, more like the village idiot than a barkeeper of any sort.
“Come far today, stranger?” he asked her in a gritty voice.
“Far enough,” Lythande answered politely.
“Stranger, be you a magician?” asked the queer little gnome of a man. “And do you take commissions at a reasonable price?”
“I do, then,” Lythande observed, “But, forgive me if I sound crass—what would you consider a reasonable price? And how can I tell you unless I first know the scope of the job?”
He leaned over and drew a curtain which hung, she thought, over a gateway to the street outside. But as he drew it aside, Lythande stared—for it led, not to the outside, but to a view of a flight of steps which came out on a sunlit landscape out of doors; there were large expanses of sunlit summer trees and long green meadows where there should be nothing but snow.
“Just to go out yonder and see what’s there. Le’ me tell you another magician asked thirty silvers—and so I hung that curtain up—an’ I can always just draw it closed. It won’t bother us ifn’s we don’t bother it none.”
Lythande felt like screaming with laughter. But she only asked soberly, “What would you consider a fair price?
“Mebbe three silvers, just to walk outside an’ see something that probably ain’t there?” he said sharply with an unpleasant smile.
“I see that there may be monsters or something worse at the top of those steps,” Lythande said caref
ully. “What if I must come down even faster than I went up.? Will I have any time to come back here and collect enough silvers to do away with some mighty ogre?”
For, she thought the world behind those stairs might be anywhere—but the only place it was certainly not was outside in the street.
The little gnome behind the bar said “You can leave that there harp; I’ll take care of it an’ your pack too.”
Lythande said “I never leave my harp. And what if I need something from the pack? I could as easily leave the Blue Star from my brow.” She rummaged in the pack and took out her book of spells. “This at least I carry with me. The rest you may keep; if I do not return, some member of my Order will claim pack and harp.”
“As you wish, sir sorcerer,” Bat-ears conceded. “Is it likely that you will not return? Have you had any premonitions? Can you arrange to send me a message from the Other Side? Maybe what’s good on the stock market?
“What kind of ghoul are you?” Lythande asked in disgust
“No offense meant,” Bat-ears answered, “But you magicians—all that bosh about the afterlife, but nothing really useful, like never knowin’ what’s good on the stock market, or what will win at the racecourse—You magicians give me a pain.”
I wonder if any of you know what you give me, Lythande thought, but aloud she only made a meaningless conciliatory murmur.
She thrust the spell book into the pocket of the breeches under her mage-robe, and went toward the window and heaved it open. It opened on a flight of stairs. Not really giving herself time to think, she set her foot upon the lowest step of the stairs and went up.
There were more stairs than there looked to be. Halfway along the flight of stairs, she felt a curious disorientation, no longer sure she was climbing; might she not, rather, have been descending? And from the sharp chill in the air, Lythande knew that at least they were no longer underground. Had they ever been?
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