The Complete Lythande

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  Lythande, who had just finished dipping another rod of candles, froze in astonishment as Eirthe held her hands on either side of the candle figure and chanted softly. A glow radiated from her hands and surrounded the figure, and when she fell silent and dropped her hands, it was no longer white. Now it was a perfect likeness of Tashgan, from the color of his skin, hair, and eyes to the gold of his crown. “What are you doing?” she asked in astonishment, even as the prickling running through the blue star on her forehead answered her. “I did not know you could work magic!”

  Eirthe shrugged, picking up the candle. “It seems I always had some natural aptitude for it—Alnath has been with me since I was a small child. After all the confusion with the volcano when we were getting rid of the curse on me, I decided that I should learn more about it before I killed myself or someone else. So I spent a couple of years at the College in Northwander. Now I can do a few simple spells, and I have a much better idea of what to avoid doing if I want to stay out of trouble.”

  “Very sensible of you,” Lythande said approvingly, remembering the incident to which Eirthe referred. The ‘confusion’ with the volcano had occurred when the volcano demanded Lythande as a sacrifice to keep it from erupting. They had both had a narrow escape that time. “But making wax figures in the likeness of living people can be a dangerous thing.”

  “I know.” Eirthe unlocked a metal trunk sitting in the far corner of her work area and took out a small wooden box lined with straw. She packed the Tashgan candle into it, closed it securely, and relocked the trunk. “I keep them locked up, with at least three salamanders guarding them at all times, and when they are burned at the feast, I’ll be sitting near them. And these aren’t magically similar representations of the people involved; they merely look like them. It’s just a superficial likeness, not a true similarity. If it were not so, they could not be burned without harming the people they resemble.”

  “Are you sure?” Lythande asked. “Have you done this before?”

  “Several times,” Eirthe assured her. “I did one of Alnath first, and then several of myself, before I tried doing one of anyone else. I don’t give them away still formed; they’re always burned in my presence. Nobody has ever been harmed by these candles, and I intend to keep it that way.” She spoke grimly, and Lythande remembered that it was Eirthe’s refusal to make candles for a wizard who wanted to use them in an extortion scheme that had caused him to put his Cold Curse on her.

  “I know you would never use them to harm someone,” she assured the candle maker. “But if they aren’t used for magic, why do people want them made?”

  “Vanity,” Eirthe said simply. “It’s a bit like having a portrait painted, but it also shows that one is rich enough that one can afford to pay for the work and then have it destroyed.”

  Lythande laughed. “I know that sort of vanity well. It enriches the minstrel as well as the craftsman.”

  “That is truth,” Eirthe agreed, picking up a second of the plain white blocks and beginning to carve the folds of a long dress. “Now Tashgan is King, and he needs a Queen. Or, rather, he needs heirs—legitimate ones—and he wants a useful alliance. So we have Princess Velvet of Valantia. She’s the twelfth of thirteen children, eleven of them girls; and Valantia and Tschardain have trade interests in common. So her father gets rid of another daughter and can pay her dowry in trade concessions rather than hard cash.”

  “What does Tashgan get out of this?” Lythande asked. “Other than a beautiful princess, of course.”

  “Valantia’s major product is their wines.”

  Lythande’s lips twitched as she continued dipping candles in a steady rhythm. “I feel certain that was a major consideration.”

  “To Tashgan, at least,” Eirthe agreed. “And the Vizier approves, so the marriage should do well enough...” her voice trailed off uncertainly. “Lythande?”

  Lythande set down the last of the tapers she had been dipping and moved to Eirthe’s side. While she had been working her way through the batch of tapers, Eirthe had finished another candle and set it in place for the spell to add its color. Lythande’s frown as she studied it matched Eirthe’s. “That is not Princess Velvet.”

  Eirthe chewed on her lip, picked up the candle and turned it over in her hands. “It’s supposed to be,” she said, “but it doesn’t look quite like her. I’ve never had this happen before. Is there someone else’s magic influencing me?”

  Lythande took a deep breath, gripped the hilt of the magical dagger she wore under her robe, and cast her mind about the area. “There’s quite a bit of magic in this castle,” she said after a moment, “too much to identify it all without going into a full trance. But the simple answer is no. There is no magic influencing the work you are currently doing save your own.”

  “But that would mean that this is what Princess Velvet truly looks like—” Eirthe stared wide-eyed at Lythande. “Oh, Lord and Lady...”

  “Finish the spell,” Lythande ordered firmly. “Add the color.”

  Eirthe’s hands trembled slightly as she put the figure down, and she stared at it in silence for a long moment. In the quiet, Lythande heard the voices of the guards exchanging greetings on the walls of the outer courtyard, and the soft whispers of salamanders basking in the faintly crackling fire. Then Eirthe placed her hands, now steady, about the figure and chanted the spell. When the glow died both women studied the figure intently.

  “She’s rather pretty,” Eirthe ventured at last. “She has a kind face.”

  “And medium brown hair, pale grey eyes, and, I believe, freckles,” Lythande sighed. “Can you imagine what Tashgan is going to say?”

  “No,” Eirthe said. “My imagination isn’t that good.”

  “Why would anyone bespell her to change her appearance?” Lythande wondered. “Who would do such a thing? Who benefits by it?”

  “Tashgan does,” Eirthe said. “He likes beauty. And Velvet both benefits and is harmed by it.”

  “What do you mean?” Lythande asked.

  “She probably wasn’t given any choice about marrying him,” Eirthe pointed out, “but her life will be vastly more pleasant if he likes her. He likes things which are beautiful, so he’s disposed to like her now. But if she knows that her beauty is the result of a spell and not her true appearance, she knows that what he likes about her is an illusion, a lie.” She shrugged. “I don’t know Velvet well, but that would make me very unhappy.”

  Who here specializes in illusions? Lythande asked herself. “Lady Mirwen,” Lythande said aloud. “Make a candle of her, and tell me about her.”

  “It would have to be magically similar to tell us much of anything,” Eirthe pointed out. “And I don’t do magically similar candles.”

  “You know how,” Lythande said. “You can do it if you choose. I do not seek to harm the woman; I want only information. You may keep the candle and take what safeguards you wish.”

  “Very well,” Eirthe said slowly. She opened the trunk again, packed the Velvet candle in a box, and buried it in the bottom layer before relocking the trunk. Then she picked up the next block of wax and began to carve it. Her brow furrowed in concentration, and she hummed something Lythande couldn’t quite catch. Lythande stood watching intently, ignoring the prickling sensation of the blue star on her forehead.

  When the spell was finished the candle was a chimera, the face of Lady Mirwen on the body of a very fat spider. Eirthe regarded it in dismay. “Oh, dear,” she sighed.

  “I think we have our spell-caster,” Lythande said mildly. “Something about that woman has bothered me from the moment I met her, and you have captured what I feel about her most clearly.”

  “So what do we do now?” Eirthe said faintly. Lythande studied her. Her face was pale and her hands were trembling.

  “You lock these candles up, and we put the trunk in my room,” Lythande said, dropping her voice to a whisper to make very certain that no one would overhear them. “Then we both go to bed. Tomorrow, we talk to
Princess Velvet.”

  “What about the tapers?” Eirthe looked at the drying rack. “Oh, you’ve finished them. Can you pour the wax remaining in the cauldron into that cube over there?” She pointed to one of the row of wooden cubes she used to store and transport solid wax.

  Lythande nodded, carried the cube to sit next to the cauldron, and tipped the cauldron on its hook until the melted wax had all run into the cube. She was amused to notice that several of the baby salamanders came to help melt out the last drops. Eirthe has quite a team working here.

  Eirthe relocked the trunk, and each of them took a handle. Escorted by a flight of salamanders they took the back stairs to their rooms, where Lythande set the trunk against the stone wall at the far side of her room and spelled it to stay locked, closed, and bound to the wall. “This will stay untouched unless the whole building comes down,” she said reassuringly, “but if you want some of the salamanders to stay with it, I have no objection.”

  Eirthe, who had collapsed in the nearest chair as soon as she set down her side of the trunk, nodded wearily. Alnath and two smaller balls of flame settled down on top of the trunk.

  Lythande, seeing that Eirthe had clearly reached the end of her resources for one day, marched the woman next door to her assigned room, stripped the swaying body down to her shift, and tucked her into bed. As she closed Eirthe’s door behind her and returned to her own room, two guardsmen passed by at the end of the hallway. They eyed Lythande curiously, saying nothing as they tried unsuccessfully to keep speculative grins from showing.

  ~o0o~

  Eirthe recovered quickly; the knock on Lythande’s door the next morning came at what Lythande considered an indecently early hour. Rolling out of bed and throwing on the concealing mage-robe, she went to let the candlemaker in. Three salamanders flew from the trunk to mingle with the group accompanying Eirthe.

  “They say that all was quiet last night,” Eirthe said. “I am glad.” Then she looked more closely at Lythande. “Did I wake you? The sun has been up for almost an hour.”

  “How nice for the sun,” Lythande growled.

  Eirthe’s lips twitched. “Shall I order breakfast? You will probably feel better once you have eaten.”

  “Only if you want your reputation to be completely ruined,” Lythande replied. “A couple of guards were in the corridor when I left your room last night.”

  Eirthe chuckled. “We can order breakfast from here and confuse them all. You need not worry about my reputation; Tashgan values me for my craft, not my virtue or lack thereof.” She crossed the room to tug on the bell-pull. “Besides,” she added, “most of the people here already think I’m Tashgan’s discarded mistress. Why else would I be housed in the castle at all—much less in such luxury?”

  “I wondered about that myself,” Lythande admitted. “Why are you housed in the castle?”

  Eirthe laughed. “The first year the fair was held—before the Vizier had the roads fixed—the weather was bad and my wagon got stuck in the mud a few miles away. There weren’t very many people here then, so Tashgan allowed me to stay in the castle. The next year my room was ready for me when I arrived, and by the third year, of course, it had become a tradition for me to stay in the castle. I have no idea what, if anything, Tashgan was thinking, but I admit it’s very nice to be indoors with servants to look after me.”

  “Perhaps you remind him of a time when he was young and carefree,” Lythande suggested, “before he had to stay in one place and settle down.”

  “Probably,” Eirthe agreed, going to the door to admit the servant she had summoned.

  Lythande sank into a chair and pulled her hood to shadow her face while Eirthe dealt with the girl. She didn’t move until Eirthe bolted the door behind the servant who had brought their food and handed the magician a full plate.

  “The salamanders are all female,” Eirthe said, “in case that matters to the rules you follow.”

  “It matters not,” Lythande said, beginning to eat. Eirthe was right; food did make her feel at least a bit better. “It is only in the company of men that I am forbidden to eat or drink. If my companions are not human, their gender is not important.”

  ~o0o~

  After breakfast they set off in search of Princess Velvet. “We need not worry about encountering Tashgan,” Eirthe explained. “He sleeps most of the morning.”

  “And Lady Mirwen?” Lythande asked skeptically.

  “I sent Alnath to look. Mirwen is in the courtyard with the Vizier, and the Princess is in the solar.”

  “Not much of a chaperone, is she?” the magician commented.

  “Just as well for us,” Eirthe pointed out. “Alnath will keep watch and warn us if Lady Mirwen is coming.”

  “Very well,” Lythande said. “Follow me and do not speak until we reach the solar.” She led the way across the Great Hall and up the stairs to the solar, casting a minor glamour to keep anyone from seeing them. Princess Velvet was indeed in the solar, curled up on a cushioned window ledge intent on the book she was reading. Lythande dropped the spell and cleared her throat. The Princess squeaked in surprise and shoved the book under the cushion before looking up to see who had entered.

  Eirthe laughed softly. “You need not hide the book on our account, Highness. I was here when you arrived; I know that half your baggage was books.”

  “Oh.” Velvet looked at her with interest. “Do you like books?”

  “Oh, yes,” Eirthe responded. “Half my things are books, too—they are much more interesting than clothes or jewels.”

  Velvet looked down at her dress, which was twisted around her legs and showing both her ankles. Blushing, she stood up and straightened her skirts. “I beg your pardon, Lord Magician,” she said to Lythande.

  “No need for that,” Lythande said dryly. “I am not young enough to be inflamed to madness by the sight of a woman’s ankles.” She realized belatedly that this was not reassuring; the Princess looked as if she wished to sink through the floor.

  Eirthe glared at Lythande. To the girl she said, “Lythande is several centuries old and no longer remembers how it feels to be young and easily embarrassed. Pay him no heed.”

  Velvet looked shocked at this lack of respect for a great magician. “Did you wish to speak to me, Lord Magician?” she asked Lythande.

  “As it happens,” Lythande replied, “I do. First, where is your lady-in-waiting?”

  Velvet’s bland mask dropped and her face suddenly wore an astonishing look of cynicism. “Off chasing after the Vizier. She will probably be gone for at least another hour—she has spent each morning since our arrival with him.”

  “Wants to be the power behind the throne, does she?” Lythande’s centuries of experience were suddenly quite apparent.

  Velvet shrugged. The blank-faced innocent look was completely gone now. “Why else would she leave home and come to a foreign land? I assure you that it was not for love of me.”

  “Has she cast any spells on you that you know of?” Lythande inquired.

  Velvet’s eyes rounded in surprise. “Not that I know of,” she said uneasily. “You think I am bespelled.” It was not a question.

  “Eirthe.” At Lythande’s command Eirthe put the candle figure of Princess Velvet on the table in the center of the room. The sun, streaming in through the eastern window cast a glow around it. Lythande turned to Velvet. “Can you tell us what this is, Princess?”

  Velvet picked it up and turned it over in her hands. Then she smiled at Eirthe. “Did you make this?” Eirthe nodded. “It is an excellent likeness,” the princess said. “You have a great gift.”

  “This looks like you?” Lythande asked.

  Velvet looked at Lythande as if doubting the magician’s sanity. “Yes, Lord Magician.”

  “Have you seen a mirror since you arrived here?” Lythande demanded.

  “No.” Velvet looked uneasy. “I never paid much attention to my looks. I have so many sisters that I never expected to marry, and in an arranged marriage, a
princess’s looks are much less important than her dowry. I do not even own a mirror—I’m the twelfth child, and mirrors are very expensive.”

  “True,” Lythande agreed, “but they are useful in certain spells, so I always carry one.” She pulled a small mirror from her belt pouch and handed it to the princess. “Look at yourself now.”

  Velvet stared into the mirror, gasped, and ran her hand over her lips as if to be certain that it was her own reflection in the mirror. “I look like one of my father’s mistresses,” she exclaimed in horror. “They’re the only women I know of who use face paint. Is this some sorcery of yours, Lord Magician?”

  “Sorcery, yes,” Lythande replied, “but not mine.”

  Velvet thrust the mirror back at Lythande, who took it and put it back into her belt pouch. “Can you remove this spell?” she asked anxiously. “I do not wish to go through the rest of my life looking like this! I look like a doll!”

  “I could remove the spell quite easily,” Lythande said, “but consider: this is how Lord Tashgan thinks you look.” Velvet sank back onto the window ledge with a soft moan and buried her face in her hands. Lythande hoped the girl would not start crying. “And your lady-in-waiting doubtless had her reasons for changing your appearance,” the mage added. That brought Velvet’s face out of her hands, her expression a thoughtful frown as she stared at Lythande and Eirthe.

  “How did you find out that it was not my true appearance?” Velvet asked.

  “Lord Tashgan asked me to make candles of both of you for the wedding feast,” Eirthe explained. “And although I saw the illusion when I looked at you with my eyes, when I made the candle, it came out as you see.” She gestured to the candle, which Velvet had put back on the table. “So I asked Lythande why what I made did not match what I had seen.”