“Alas, Lythande my beloved! I cannot live without you.”
Lythande drew the mage-robe about her body. What sort of great love had been attracted by her spell? Well, whatever it was, by the very precautions which had fenced it round, it would be incapable of doing her any harm; not to her health nor even to her morals, though she was quite sure that, by ordinary standards, she had no morals. She stepped out of the barn and under a great shadow darkening the early morning sun and closing off almost half the sky.
A creature of cloud? It was so vast that beneath the low-hanging sky she could hardly take it all in. Then it flapped its mighty wings, moaning out its call, blurred by the vibrations so near.
“Lythande! Oh, Lythande, come to me, my beloved! I have reconsidered, and of all I have known I love only you.”
Lythande stood looking up at the sky. Oh no! she thought. It was the were-dragon Beauty! Beauty was the reason Lythande had been avoiding Northwander.
And Beauty knew her female identity.
“Beauty,” she cried out. “Come down here at once. And please stop making that noise!” So this, she thought, was what her spell had brought.
Beauty’s great shadow diminished somewhat as the were-dragon climbed down the sky and shrank into her human form, asking meekly, “Don’t you like my song, Lythande?”
“I have no desire to criticize your musical talents,” Lythande said quickly, “but it is still early in the day. I was experimenting with a spell, but it seems to have pulled you in, and you endanger my very existence, calling attention to me thus.”
“Not for the world and everything in it would I cause you even a moment’s pain or sorrow, Lythande. But I beg you, do not send me away from you so soon, Lythande. I live only to serve you.”
Lythande felt just a little ashamed of herself—and very nervous. She wondered how she could have come to inspire the devotion of this powerful and capricious creature; apparently this spell was curious indeed.
“I think I owe you an apology, Beauty,” she said. “Will you come into the inn, and have a drink or a morning bowl of coffee with me, and I will explain. But I am traveling incognito; you must say nothing of my true identity.”
“I rather think you are always traveling incognito,” said Beauty shrewdly. “But I would never endanger you, Lythande,” she added in a soft and sincere voice.
“Come, then,” Lythande said gently. “Share my breakfast and I will tell you what a foolish thing I have done.” But, she wondered, had it been so foolish after all? She had been lamenting the secret of her womanhood—and this was what she had called to her? Was this not as good or maybe better than many lovers? What was better than a friend; a friend to whom her true identity was known, so that she could feel the freedom of her hidden womanhood. What was love but to have one who knew the truth of you and—spell or no spell—accepted you nonetheless?
Over a breakfast which she shared with Beauty, of bowls of milk and coffee for Beauty, she confided to the were-dragon what she had done and then released her from the spell. Fortunately Beauty chose to be amused, rather than annoyed.
And when Beauty had flown away again, still chuckling, Lythande awaited the woman who had demanded the spell which would never endanger her health nor morals nor the affections of her husband.
“Here it is,” said Lythande, holding out her arms. In them, a small spaniel puppy wriggled. “Here is a love which will never endanger the love of your husband, perhaps the truest love of all.”
The woman stared down. “A puppy dog,” she said. “Now how, I wonder, did you happen to think of that?”
“Lythande smiled. “Because,” she said, “If I gave you a dragon, she might step on you.”
But, no matter how the woman begged, Lythande would not explain.
Goblin Market
Lythande came into the village unseen by a back road; for since her last time in that town, she had been by strange roads, which probably no one in the village would have thought of as roads at all.
As was her usual custom when she came into a strange village, she sought out an inn and commanded a bowl of wine, which of course she could not drink, for no Adept of the Blue Star might eat or drink within sight of any man. But with a bowl of wine before her, safe in the man’s dress she wore, she would have a reason to stay in the tavern’s warmth. She was the only woman ever to infiltrate the Order of the Blue Star, and the price she had paid for her Adepthood was that she must wear forever the disguise which she had intended only as a brief temporary expediency.
She sat in the corner of the common room for a long time, half asleep—for she had been where there was little chance of sleep for many nights. After a time, an elderly villager who had just entered the tavern asked her, “Ho, master magician, be ye here for the Goblin Market?”
Lythande recalled her wandering attention and tried to rouse herself. “You still hold Goblin Markets in these parts?”
“Hey,” said an old man, not too politely. “What kind of hedge wizard be ye if ye dunna’ know about the Goblin Market? Dunna ye ha’ goblin markets in your neck o’ the woods? What sort o’ Godforgotten country sha’ it be, that dunna’ trade wi’ the goblin men for their steel knives an’ swords?”
“Ho, is it so?” asked Lythande. “In my neck o’ the country the goblins shew themselves only to innocent young maids and never to any man. There is even an ancient ballad about it, which I have sung all over this country—would it please your folk to hear it, lordlings and commons?”
“It would indeed,” said one hearty old man with the well-fed look of a noble.
Thus encouraged, Lythande struck her harp and sang the ancient ballad. There were two sisters, one was a good maiden and minded her loom, and as reward the ballad had little to say of her save her name; but the other was naughty and given to daydreaming. She spied and peeped at the goblin folk, and finally ate of their sweet fruits and as reward pined almost to death. For the goblins never shewed themselves but once to any maiden; and so her good sister put a silver penny in her pocket and went forth to buy at the goblin market—and there she offered to buy. But the goblins mocked her and pressed her to eat, saying that they did not sell to fair maidens, but only gave. But she would not open her mouth, no matter how they pressed her to eat—and at last they clung round her, slapping and pinching her and thrusting their fruits upon her—but she kept her mouth tight shut, while they slapped and pinched her, attempting again and again to thrust their fruits on her physically—
“And so we have two sisters, and one was a good girl and minded her spinning wheel, and so of course the ballad—” and Lythande’s bearing took on a cunning look. “I am a poor man, Excellency, and I must be out e’er it grows dark, to seek a well-sheltered haystack...”
“Innkeeper,” the man interrupted, “at this hour it’s unlikely you’ll find a tenant for your rooms. Have you a spare chamber for this minstrel?”
“Ay’, the li’l room where I ripens my winter apples. Let ’im sleep there; he’s welcome to any of ’em apples. None on ’em’ll be fit to eat for a month still; he’s welcome, far as that goes, for them apples ain’t ripe nohow, and he’s welcome to any on ’em, if ’e dunna’ fear the bellyache and gripes.”
Lythande pricked up her ears. She had a ripening-spell at her command which would ripen, in the pockets of her mage-robe, as many apples as she could make away with. She wondered indeed if she should offer the spell to the innkeeper in exchange for a pocketful of apples, but held her peace. Most likely the innkeeper would offer her only one or two apples for her spell, and she would rather fill her pockets with the green fruit. With another small spell she could conceal her depredations however many she might take.
Bending her head to the harp Lythande sang her ballad to where one sister pined near to death for the goblin fruits; for the goblins never show themselves but once to any maid—and here Lythande paused again.
“I am but a poor man, Excellency, with little to sell but my ballads, and what small ma
gic a mercenary may offer—but I offer you a spell which will keep your women and ladies and girls from the fruits of Goblin Market—”
“Na, na, na, we dunna want any o’ your spells—as for the girls, their mothers ha’ told them day and night to keep their eyes to themselves—ay, we lose a couple every year or so at Goblin Market, but we let them damn themselves as they will—what good is a girl who canna’ mind her loom at Goblin Market? What our folk want from you, Sir Magician, is a spell for them as deals wi’ the Goblin men—for they try allus to sell us not good goblin steel, but steel charmed to kill us—not our enemies.”
Lythande, shocked, asked, “But what about the girls—don’t even their mothers want them back?”
“Oh aye, but none on’ us here has any brass for such foolery—what we want is a spell to make the goblins sell us good swords an’ daggers—what good is a girl can’t mind her loom an’ goes about mooning after goblin lovers?”
So now Lythande knew why she had been sent here.
There was a force—Lythande knew it only as the Goddess—who would sometimes use her to right the wrongs of some woman or other, greatly to the destruction of Lythande’s own will and plans.
This did not happen very often—it had last occurred in the episode where she had become entangled in somebody else’s magic, where she had been forced to travel as a woman to return the sword of a priestess to her Goddess’s shrine. But when it happened it over-rode any of Lythande’s own magic. She was, to say the least, unhappy that it had happened again,
Still, she might as well get it over with. She said, “I do not know the customs of your village. At what hour do you hold your Goblin Market?”
“Oh. So, ye’re going to the Goblin Market, Master Magician?” Curiosity grew in the old man’s face, wrinkling it up till it looked like a withered pumpkin.
“If you will tell me at what hour it gathers.” She had not been among goblin-folk for many years. “I have been travelling in far countries, and know none of your customs.”
“Oh, is that so?” asked one of the men, glancing at his fellows, and Lythande wondered wearily if they would attempt to play a crude local joke on her. Well, there was nothing to do but get it over.
“They usually come in about moonrise; and it’s held in that shed yonder. The goblins don’t like strong sun or strong moonlight neither.”
“True,” Lythande murmured. She bid the tavern guests an indifferent good-evening, and wandered out, still burdened with her harp-case and travel pack, to stand in the empty cold square and watch the first goblins slipping into town. In the shelter of the huge barn, little booths and slender chairs were springing up like strange mushrooms.
~o0o~
Lythande had not been among goblin-folk for many years and she had forgotten much of what she knew about them. Yet she was honestly astonished to see a face she knew, belonging to a small squat goblin with bat-ears and a rounded, greying chin adorned with skimpy greying whiskers. After a time she realized that at least one of them knew her when he hailed her by name.
“Hullo, Lythande; I knew not that your kind were so long-lived! I thought that you had long-since gone to join your ancestors in whatever part of hell they inhabit!”
“Ah, Toad-kin!” replied Lythande. “I equally believed that your folk had long gone to stake out their own lands there. I had expected to find you reigning over their greatest boulevards.”
“Will you take a cup of good goblin wine with me, Lythande?”
“I will,” Lythande said, rejoicing that the goblin-folk were in no way men, and she could enjoy a cup of goblin wine (which she actually liked) in their company. “But none of your old tricks, Toad-kin, or I will cheerfully break every bone in your body. If you offer me anything unwholesome such as a cup of rat poison...”
The goblin’s face twisted into drollness. “You have no sense of humor, Lythande?”
“About my own survival, none,” Lythande answered, with cheerful brutality. A servant came bearing the goblin wine, which was delicately lemon-colored and looked delicious. Lythande picked it up and then, warned perhaps by some breath of humor in the eyes of her host, summoned power to her voice and asked, “Is this good wholesome wine?”
Held and transfixed by the magician’s voice, the goblin muttered, “No.”
“Which bone shall I break first, then?” Lythande asked grinning with the same cheerful brutality. The goblin winced.
“None, please,” he asked in a small voice.
“Why, this is your own game, and I thought you willingly played it. Come now, let us begin,” she said, “Perhaps a knee? An ankle?”
The goblin collapsed into loud blubbering wails. Horrified, Lythande regarded him in consternation.
“Why, what’s this?” she asked. “Your brothers are singing—I hear them.”
“You hear them? Under normal conditions, none but fair young maidens can hear them! Or is it magicians too?”
Caught right off-guard, Lythande snarled, “Ware, Toad-kin, or I begin with truth on the bone-breaking! Look I to you like a fair young maiden?”
“Not like any I have ever seen,” he mumbled, “but what do I know of maidens?”
“I am as far from being a fair young maid as you are from being an honest young goblin!” Lythande grumbled and hoped that the goblin was not for once telling the truth. “Does it seem to you that I am a fair young maid?”
“Nay. All the world knows Lythande the greatest of magicians!” wept the goblin at her feet.
“From you I ask this in fee; if any maidens be ensnared by the goblin fruit, redeem them in my name,” said Lythande at once in haste to be free of that village and the goblins. She threw down some bits of silver and departed immediately.
When Lythande passed next through the village there was no sign of any habitation: the great barn was locked and shuttered and falling down. And on the ancient wooden sign, faded and decrepit, were the words:
Goblin Market
CLOSED
The Gratitude of Kings
Lythande, Adept of the Blue Star, mercenary magician, and sometime minstrel, entered the inner courtyard of the royal castle of Tschardain still accompanied by four guards. Twelve more had split off from the traveling party in the outer courtyard. It had been quite an escort for one solitary magician, who needed no guards at all for safety, but Lythande knew that their master liked to make showy gestures, especially if other people were doing the work involved. No doubt he was thrilled to be able to send out such a large party of men to escort one magician. He was not motivated by chivalry; the fact that she was a woman was Lythande’s deepest secret, the one that guarded her magical powers. Lythande had, on a few occasions, even killed to keep that secret. If she were proclaimed a woman in the hearing of any man, the Power of the Blue Star would be gone from her and she would die.
In truth, Lythande was not entirely sure that she wished to be here. The guard captain sent to summon her had informed her that his master would be most grateful if the magician would accept this invitation to his coronation, and Lythande, in her many centuries of life, was not without experience in the “gratitude” of kings. She had dealt briefly with Tashgan about ten years before, when his two elder brothers died and left him as his father’s sole heir. Then he had been Prince Tashgan the wandering minstrel, who traveled each year from his father’s court to Northwander and back, drinking and womanizing the entire way. His travels had not been entirely voluntary; his route and the duration of his stay in each place were enforced by a spell on his lute, set by the court magician at his brothers’ request. They had made certain that he could not remain in one place long enough to gather allies who would plot against them, but when their deaths made him his father’s heir the spell had been a real problem. Lythande had traded lutes with him, enabling him to go home to the kingdom he was to inherit; and, so far as she knew, he had been content with that solution.
Lythande was curious to see what settling down had done to Tashgan. The guards tol
d her only that his father had died at long last and that Tashgan required her services. And it was certainly more pleasant to travel with other people who were doing the hard work at campsites and paying the reckoning at the inns.
The journey into the mountains of Tschardain was a surprisingly easy one. The biggest problem was that a couple of the guards seemed to be terrified of Lythande—or perhaps merely of magicians in general. The climate was mild for early winter, the inns were comfortable and close enough together for a leisurely journey, and the roads were well maintained. Nevertheless Lythande was surprised to see, as they approached the castle, what appeared to be a respectable-size trade fair being set up in a flat expanse of rock below the castle walls. She started to ask the guards about it, but the captain said hastily that it was just the trade fair, they did it every year, it wouldn’t start until the morrow, it was nothing to concern the master magician, and Lord Tashgan was waiting, so if it would please the honorable magician to accompany them... Lythande suspected that the poor man would have dragged her into the castle by the hair, if he had only dared.
The inner courtyard was full of people hard at work, preparing for Tashgan’s coronation as High King of Tschardain. The noise was incredible, the air was full of smoke and dust—and a sudden streak of cobalt-blue fire. The guard on Lythande’s left, a young man who had been nervous the entire trip, gasped and ducked as the fire passed right over his head and straight toward Lythande’s shoulder. Even though her cloak was fire-proof, Lythande disliked having to twist her head to speak to anything on her shoulder; it was such an awkward angle. Murmuring a spell to fireproof her skin, she calmly put up a hand and the salamander landed on her left wrist, enabling her to hold it in front of her. As she had suspected, she recognized the creature. While most people looking at it would see only a ball of flame, or, if they looked closely, a miniature dragon with flames licking about its form, Lythande had worked with elementals many times in her long career and could distinguish their differences as well as their similarities.
The Complete Lythande Page 27