"You're a wizard?" Valder said.
He could see her face now in the light that came from her hand; it was a young, attractive face. She smiled. "Yes, I'm a wizard."
He looked again where she had indicated and saw that the black shape was exactly that, a charred black lump roughly the length of a man, with protruding fragments that resembled arms, legs, and a head. Valder gagged as he saw the distinctive shape of a human skull beneath a coating of ash and realized that this was all that remained of his foe.
"Not very pleasant, is it?" she remarked. "But then, they weren't very pleasant people; I suppose they were going to rape me and kill me, if I resisted."
"Did they know you were a wizard?"
"No, of course not; I don't walk the streets wearing a sign proclaiming my profession, after all."
"Why didn't you fry them both right away?"
"They caught me by surprise; I couldn't reach any of my magics, or move my hands to gesture, once they grabbed my knife and held it at my throat." She held up the dagger that Valder's first opponent had used, and he noticed for the first time that it had the white gleam of silver rather than the gray of steel and that the hilt was carved of bone.
"What were you doing in this alley in the first place, and without any protective spells?"
"Well, if you must know, I took a wrong turn; I'm lost. I had hoped this alley was a shortcut. I was sightseeing, you might say, reacquainting myself with the city; it's been quite some time since I last visited Ethshar of the Spices. As for protective spells, I had forgotten that I might need them. Foolish of me, I know—but I never claim to be free of human foolishness." She sheathed the dagger on her belt, then asked, "For that matter, what were you doing here?"
That reminded Valder of his own situation; he looked about, spotted Wirikidor's scabbard, and got to his feet to retrieve it. The sword itself, under the influence of the Spell of True Ownership, had never left his hand. When he had the sheath, he turned back and answered, "I was looking for thieves and murderers."
"It would seem you found them," she replied with a smile. "You'll have to tell me all about it—but not here. Do you have any idea "where we are?"
"Roughly; Wall Street lies three blocks that way, if I'm not mistaken, and we're not very far from Southgate Market."
"Ah! Lead on, then."
"You haven't any magic to find your way?"
"Not with me; I didn't expect to need it. I grew up in this city, back when it was called New Ethshar; I hadn't realized how much it had grown and changed."
Valder looked at her curiously at that; he had judged her to be in her early twenties, from what he had seen of her, and, though he knew well enough that the city had changed greatly in his own lifetime, he had not thought that any great part of the change had been in the past two decades. Furthermore, he had never heard it called New Ethshar.
That was none of his concern, though. He buckled the scabbard to his belt, sheathed the sword, and then led the way to Southgate Market. They arrived there without further incident, and the wizard then took the lead, in her turn. Valder followed without protest, but did ask, "Where are we going? From what you've said, you don't live in the city."
"No, but one of my former apprentices does."
Once again, Valder found himself puzzled; how could so young a wizard have a former apprentice? She seemed scarcely older than an apprentice herself. Still, he walked on in amiable silence, his feet aching with every step, discovering bruises from his fall that had not been immediately apparent.
He had lost track of time, but it was obviously quite late, once they were two blocks from the market, the streets were deserted, and the torches were burning low, some already out. He felt rather burned out himself; it had been a very long and trying day. For a moment, he wondered why he was following the wizard, but that passed; after all, she owed him a favor for his help and might at least save him the price of a night's lodging.
They arrived, finally, at the door of a small shop in the Wizards' Quarter, whose sign read "Agravan of the Golden Eye, Wizard Extraordinary." A light still burned in the window. Valder's guide knocked twice, and a moment later they were admitted to a young man who did, indeed, have one golden eye, the other being a watery blue.
"Mistress!" he exclaimed. "What kept you? And who is this?"
"I will tell you all about it, Agravan, but first, something to drink, and I think a soft bed would not be amiss— would it, friend? Your questions can wait until morning."
Valder, who was only semiconscious by this point, managed to nod agreement; he made it up a flight of stairs, then collapsed upon the offered cot and was instantly asleep.
Chapter 30
Valder awoke, uncertain of where he was. The night's events returned gradually, and a glance around reminded him that he was in the loft room of a wizard's shop. The room was cluttered with books and arcane paraphernalia, jammed on shelves and overflowing from tables; his cot was squeezed into one corner. An unreasonable surge of hope welled up briefly; here he had found himself with a wizard in his debt. Perhaps something could be done about Wirikidor!
That hope faded quickly, however, as he recalled Lurenna's words. There was nothing that could be done about the sword.
He might, however, have his eyesight restored, if the wizard he had rescued were really grateful. That would be a relief and might stave off the day when death would be preferable to an enforced life.
He got to his feet and wished he hadn't; he had done far too much walking in the past few days and had slept with his boots on. His legs and feet were aching, itchy, and swimming in sweat. He found a filled pitcher his host had thoughtfully provided and pulled off his boots to swab his feet.
He was involved in this inelegant task when Agravan appeared on the stairs.
"Good morning, sir," the young wizard called.
"Hello," Valder replied. "And my thanks for your hospitality."
"Oh, it's nothing; I owe Iridith more than I can ever repay, and you've put her in your debt, it seems."
"It's kind of her to say so."
"Would you care for breakfast? Iridith is awake, and I'm sure we all have much to tell one another."
"I would be delighted," Valder replied, though he was unsure just what he would have to say that would interest the wizards. He pulled his boots back on and followed his host downstairs.
The breakfast was good, but Valder found himself carrying the conversation, explaining in detail Wirikidor's nature and how he had come to have his sword enchanted in the first place and his attempts to remedy his situation.
When he had finished, Iridith asked, "Do you really want to die?"
"No," Valder admitted. "But it does seem preferable to the alternative."
"Is there only one alternative, though?"
"I told you that I consulted wizards on the matter and was told that the spell can't be broken without killing me."
"That's probably true; certainly I wouldn't know how to go about it," Iridith said, spreading butter on a biscuit. "However, as Tagger the Younger told you, there must be a way around it. I've never met the lad, but he sounds like a sensible person."
"How can there be a way around it? I'll live as long as I own the sword and I'll own the sword for as long as I live; there isn't any way out of that. I'll just grow older and older forever unless I kill another eighteen men and allow myself to be murdered. I don't mind the idea of living forever, but not if I continue to age."
"Ah, but then why should you continue to age?"
Valder wondered if the woman was being intentionally dense. "I don't have a great deal of choice in the matter," he retorted.
"That's where you're wrong, though. You do have a choice. Others might not, but you do; you just don't know it."
Valder was not sure if the wizard was speaking in riddles or just babbling outright nonsense. "What are you talking about?" he asked politely. He was tempted to be harsher, but the wizard had saved him from injury the night before, as much, a
s he had saved her, and besides, offending wizards was never a good idea.
"How old do you think I am?" she asked.
Playing along with the apparent nonsequitur, Valder answered, "Oh, twenty-one or so." An honest reply would have been twenty-five.
She smiled, and Valder, who had not really had a chance to see her clearly the night before, was startled by how beautiful her face became when she smiled. "I'm two hundred and. eighty-eight."
Valder could think of nothing to say in reply to such an outrageous claim. He had heard tales of immortal wizards, of course—everybody had—but he had never paid much attention to them. He had seen wizards die and knew them for mere mortal humans; two of his childhood friends had taken up careers in magic, one as a theurgist and one as a wizard, yet both had remained ordinary people outside of their magical abilities.
"I don't think you believe me," Iridith said, reading his face. "But it's true. I served as a combat wizard for a century under Admiral Sidor and Admiral Dathet; I was retired long before Azrad came to power, and before you were born. I grew up here before the city wall was built, before the Palace was built, before the New Canal was dug. There are spells to restore or preserve youth indefinitely."
"Why haven't I ever heard of them, then?" Valder asked skeptically.
"You've never heard of wizards centuries old?"
"Certainly I have, but just rumors—and most of those wizards were supposed to look old, not young and beautiful."
She smiled again. "My thanks for the compliment; my face is my own, only my age is of thaumaturgical origin. Not all wizards who can restore youth choose to do so; many prefer to stay the outward age at which they learned the spells that prevent aging. Since that's usually not until one is sixty or seventy years old, many of the ancients like myself still look old. I was vain enough—and weary enough of eating with false teeth—that I chose otherwise. I was... let me see... seventy-four when I learned the secrets."
"That doesn't explain why I never heard more about these spells, though."
"They were secret, of course—the Wizards' Guild saw to that. Even during the war, when we let the army know so many secrets, we kept that one for ourselves."
"But why?"
"Isn't it obvious?"
"Not to me."
"The spells are very difficult, the ingredients very expensive, and they consume an inordinate amount of magical energy. If everyone knew that such spells existed, everyone would want them; who wouldn't want to be young forever? However, that's not practical. First off, if no one were to die of old age, the world would become very crowded very quickly. And besides, we simply couldn't enchant everyone; there isn't enough to go around of some of the ingredients, and the spells would use up so much magical energy that it might affect the whole balance of reality. But do you think most people would believe that? Most people distrust wizards enough as it is. In the face of something like eternal youth being denied them, they'd surely accuse us of keeping it for ourselves out of evil motives." She paused, then added, "Besides, there are plenty of people around I'd just as soon not see still alive a century hence."
Valder had to agree with that sentiment, but asked, "What about some of the really important people, though?
Why haven't you restored Azrad's youth, if it's possible? He's a great man and, as overlord of the world's richest city, he could certainly afford to pay for the ingredients, however rare they are."
"Oh, certainly, we could restore his youth, and he could afford to pay for it—but we don't want to. He's been a good enough overlord, and a good admiral before that, but, if he were to live forever, he might not stay one. What sympathy would he have for ordinary people once he, himself, were free of the fear of death? Besides, he would then have an unfair advantage in his competition with his fellow triumvirs, don't you think? He would have all eternity to plot and plan and carry out his schemes; what mortal ruler could compete? In a century or two, he'd rule all the world—including the wizards, perhaps, and we don't want that. Nor do we care to treat all rulers equally with our youth spells; we'd be preserving the bad along with the good and isolating them from their people. This is without even mentioning that we could scarcely keep the spells secret if we used them on Azrad or any other public figure. If old Azrad were to appear in the next parade looking like a man of thirty again, that would make it rather obvious that youth spells exist, wouldn't it? Assuming, that is, that everyone actually believed him to be Azrad and not a brash young imposter."
Valder had to admit the truth of these arguments.
"Well, then, you see that there is a way around your curse; all you need is a perpetual youth spell."
"And just how am I to get one? Why would these immortal wizards you speak of allow me, a mere innkeeper, what they would not permit Azrad? And just who are these people, anyway? Plenty of wizards grow old and die; I've seen it happen. Who decides who will be made young?"
"Oh, that's simple enough; anyone who can handle the spells is permitted to use them. After all, how could we stop them? The difficulty is that the spells involved are all of a very high order; the one that I used was an eleventh-order spell. From what you've said of your difficulties with Wirikidor, I'm sure you know that very few wizards ever become capable of handling such spells in the course of a normal lifetime. Among those who do, the spells are not secret; in fact, any member of the Wizards' Guild who asks is given whichever recipe he might choose. In most cases, since failure usually results in a messy death, wizards wait until they are either capable of handling the magic involved or are old enough to be desperate."
"You mean all the wizards know about these youth spells?"
"Most of them, anyway."
"How can you keep secret what so many know?"
"Oh, well, that's an advantage of being wizards; the Guild has ways of keeping secrets that don't bear explaining."
"Why don't the wizards object to not being given immortality, then?"
"But they all have the opportunity to earn it, you see, if they're good enough at their craft. Most aren't—but that possibility is always there. If we were to cast the spell on every poor fool who manages to survive an apprenticeship, the world would fill up with wizards until there was no room for anyone else."
"And how am I to earn it? Are you suggesting I become a wizards' apprentice at the age of sixty-six and hope that by some miracle I live long enough to learn an eleventh-order spell?"
"It would hardly take a miracle, with Wirikidor involved; but no, that's not at all what I propose. I intend to enchant you myself."
"But you just finished explaining why the spell wasn't given out!"
"It's not given out to just anyone, Valder, but you're a special case. You saved my life last night, and, after two hundred and eighty-eight years, I consider my life rather precious. Besides, for forty years you've lived quietly, despite owning a sword that could have put you on a throne in the Small Kingdoms or otherwise cut a swathe in the world's affairs; I don't think the Guild need worry too much that you'll upset anything or take unfair advantage of extended youth. In fact, you already have immortality, and that's the hard part; all I'll be doing is restoring your youth, not extending your lifespan. I'll be saving eighteen other lives, as well; you'll have no need to draw Wirikidor again, no reason to want to be murdered. More than eighteen, since after your death the sword would take a new owner, who would have to kill his own quota before he could die. That's a very nasty sword you have there, and I'm sure that taking it out of circulation indefinitely is a good enough reason to grant you your youth. I'm certain my Guild colleagues will agree."
"Just because I haven't done anything stupid? A life is a life, that's all, and I never saw any reason to treat mine differently because of Wirikidor."
"Ah, but that's what makes you special! Most people would have shaped their lives around the sword."
"You can't just remove the spell somehow?" Valder was not sure whether he wanted to be young again; the idea was strange, unfamiliar, an
d he needed time before he could accept it fully.
"I could, actually, but we would both die as a result, and I am not in the least interested in dying."
Valder was not interested in dying, either. Here, finally, was his way out, if he could only accept it. He would be young again—he would live forever, if he chose. He could not help but think that there was some trick to it, some hidden catch; it had been wizardry that had complicated his situation in the first place, when the hermit had wanted to get rid of him. Now another wizard was volunteering to interfere with his life, and he was sure there would be drawbacks—but he could not think of any. After several minutes of thought, he reached a decision. He would not be deterred by his previous experience. He would accept this incredible gift being offered him. Perhaps with new youth, his eyesight would return to what it had once been; he would like that.
"All right," he said, pushing his chair back from the breakfast table. "What do we do now?"
Iridith smiled. "Come with me."
Chapter 31
The house by the seaside was pleasant enough, with its covered porches and wooden walkways down to the beach, but it was not at all what Valder had expected of a centuries-old wizard capable of eleventh-order magic. He had been expecting a glittering palace, not a ramshackle old house with walls of rough wood and fieldstone and a roof of thatch.
He mentioned this to Iridith, who replied, "I had a palace once; it seemed the thing to do at the time. This is more comfortable."
Valder found that hard to believe at first, looking over the cobwebbed furnishings and feeling the cool, damp sea breeze blowing through the chinks, but he had to admit that, after Iridith had cast a restorative spell or two and conjured up a blazing fire, the house was quite cozy.
The main structure, not counting the sprawling verandas and terraces, contained just four rooms—an immense workshop filled with the arcana of the wizardly trade occupied the entire western end, a fair-sized bedroom the southeast corner, a small kitchen the northeast, and a small parlor faced south toward the sea at the center. Each room was equipped with a vast stone hearth and cavernous fireplace; when all four were lighted, the moist chill that had bothered Valder vanished in a matter of moments.
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