Bradley, Marion Zimmer - SSC 03 (2 page)

 
          
Pocketing
the gold, the minstrel asked, "How did he know that? And how did he go
out?"

 
          
"Shalpa
the swift alone knows," the tapster said. "Flew out by the smoke-hole
in the chimney, for all I ken! That one needs not the night-dark cloak of
Shalpa to cover him, for he has one of his own. He paid for your drinks, good
sir; what will you have?" And Cappen Varra proceeded to get very drunk,
that being the wisest thing to do when one becomes entangled unawares in the
private affairs of a wizard.

 
          
Outside
in the street, Lythande paused to consider. Rabben the Half-handed was no friend;
yet there was no reason his presence in Sanctuary must deal with Lythande, or
personal revenge. If it were business concerned with the Order of the Blue
Star, if Lythande must lend Rabben aid, or the Half-handed had been sent to
summon all the members of the Order, the star they both wore would have given
warning.

 
          
Yet
it would do no harm to make certain. Walking swiftly, the magician had reached
a line of old stables behind the governor's palace. There was silence and secrecy
for magic. Lythande stepped into one of the little side alleys, drawing up the
magician's cloak until no light remained, slowly withdrawing farther and farther
into the silence until nothing remained anywhere in the world
—
anywhere in the universe but the light of the blue star
ever glowing in front. Lythande remembered how it had been set there, and at
what cost
—
the price an adept paid for
power.

 
          
The
blue glow gathered, fulminated in many-colored patterns, pulsing and glowing,
until Lythande stood
within
the light; and there, in the Place That Is
Not, seated upon a throne carved apparently from sapphire, was the Master of
the Star.

 
          
"Gretings to you, fellow star, star-born,
shyryu."
The terms of endearment could mean fellow, companion, brother, sister,
beloved, equal, pilgrim; its literal meaning was
sharer of starlight.
What
brings you into the "
Pilgrim Place
this night from afar?"

 
          
"The need for knowledge, star-sharer.
Have you sent one
to seek me out in Sanctuary?"

 
          
"Not
so,
shyryu.
All is well in the
Temple
of the Star-sharers; you
have not yet been summoned; the hour is not yet come."

 
          
For
every adept of the Blue Star knows; it is one of the prices of power. At the
world's end, when all the doings of mankind and mortals are done, the last to
fall under the assault of Chaos will be the Temple of the Star; and then, in
the Place That Is Not, the Master of the Star will summon all of the Pilgrim
Adepts from the farthest corners of the world, to fight with all their magic
against Chaos; but until that day, they have such freedom as will best
strengthen their powers. The Master of the Star repeated, reassuringly,
"The hour has not come. You are free to walk as you will in the
world."

 
          
The
blue glow faded, and Lythande stood shivering. So Rabben had not been sent in
that final summoning.

           
Yet the end and Chaos might well be
at hand for Lythande.
before
the hour appointed, if
Rabben the Half-handed had his way.

 
          
It
was a fair test of strength, ordained by our masters. Rabben should bear me no
ill-will. . . .
Rabben's presence in Sanctuary need not have to do with
Lythande. He might be here upon his lawful occasions
—
if anything of Rabben's could be said to be lawful; for it
was only upon the last day of all that the Pilgrim Adepts were pledged to fight
upon the side of Law against Chaos. And Rabben had not chosen to do so before
then.

 
          
Caution
would be needed, and yet Lythande knew that Rabben was near . . .

 
          
South
and east of the governor's palace, there is a little triangular park, across
from the Street of Temples. By day the graveled walks and turns of shrubbery
are given over to predicants and priests who find not enough worship or
offerings for their liking; by night the place is the haunt of women who
worship no goddess except She of the filled purse and the empty womb. And for
both reasons the place is called, in irony, the Promise of Heaven; in
Sanctuary, as elsewhere, it is well known that those who promise do not always
perform.

 
          
Lythande,
who frequented neither women nor priests as a usual thing, did not often walk
here. The park seemed deserted; the evil winds had begun to blow, whipping
bushes and shrubbery into the shapes of strange beasts performing unnatural
acts; and moaning weirdly around the walls and eaves of the
Temples
across the street, the wind
that was said in Sanctuary to be the moaning of Azyuna in Vashanka's bed.
Lythande moved swiftly, skirting the darkness of the paths. And then a woman's
scream rent the air.

 
          
From
the shadows Lythande could see the frail form of a young girl in a torn and
ragged dress; she was barefoot and her ear was bleeding where one jeweled earring
had been tom from the lobe. She was struggling in the iron grip of a huge burly
black-bearded man, and the first thing Lythande saw was the hand gripped around
the girl's thin, bony wrist, dragging her; two fingers missing and the other
cut away to the first joint. Only then
—
when
it was no longer needed
—
did Lythande see the blue
star between the black bristling brows, the cat-yellow eyes of Rabben the
Half-handed!

 
          
Lythande
knew him of old, from the
Temple
of the Star. Even then
Rabben had been a vicious man, his lecheries notorious. Why, Lythande wondered
,
had the masters not demanded that he renounce them as the
price of his power? Lythande's lips tightened in a mirthless grimace; so
notorious had been Rabben's lecheries that if he renounced them, everyone would
know the Secret of his Power.

 
          
For
the powers of an Adept of the Blue Star depended upon a secret. As in the old
legend of the giant who kept his heart in a secret place outside his body, and
with it his immortality, so the adept of the blue star poured all his psychic force
into a single Secret; and the one who discovered the Secret would acquire all
of that adept's power. So Rabben's Secret must be something else . . . Lythande
did not speculate on it.

 
          
The
girl cried out pitifully as Rabben jerked at her wrist; as the burly magician's
star began to glow, she thrust her free hand over her eyes to shield them from
it. Without fully intending to intervene, Lythande stepped from the shadows,
and the rich voice that had made the prentice-magicians in the outer court of the
Blue Star call Lythande "minstrel" rather than "magician,"
rang out:

 
          
"By
Shipri the All-Mother, release that woman!"

 
          
Rabben
whirled. "By the nine-hundred-and-ninety-ninth eye of
Us
!
Lythande!"

 
          
"Are
there not enough women in the Street of Red Lanterns, that you must mishandle
girl-children in the Street of Temples?" For Lythande could see how young
she was, the thin arms and childish legs and ankles, the breasts not yet
full-formed beneath the dirty, torn tunic.

 
          
Rabben
turned on Lythande and sneered, "You were always squeamish,
shyryu.
No
woman walks here unless she is for sale. Do you want her for yourself? Have
you tired of your fat madame in the Aphrodisia House?"

 
          
"You
will not take her name into your mouth,
shyryu!"

 
          
"So tender for the honor of a harlot?"

 
          
Lythande
ignored that. "Let that girl go, or stand to my challenge."

 
          
Rabben's
star shot lightnings; he shoved the girl to one side. She fell nerveless to the
pavement and lay without moving. "She'll stay there until we've done. Did
you think she could run away while we fought? Come to think of it, I never did
see you with a woman, Lythande
—
is that
your
Secret, Lythande, that you've no use for women?"

 
          
Lythande
maintained an impassive face; but whatever came, Rabben must not be allowed to
pursue
that
line. "You may couple like an animal in the streets of
Sanctuary, Rabben, but I do not. Will you yield her up, or fight?"

 
          
"Perhaps
I should yield her to you; this is unheard of, that Lythande should fight in
the streets over a woman! You see, I know your habits well, Lythande!"

 
          
Damnation
of Vashanka! Now indeed I shall have to fight for the girl!

 
          
Lythande's
rapier snicked from its scabbard and thrust at Rabben as if of its own will.

 
          
"Ha!
Do you think Rabben fights street-brawls with the sword like any
mercenary?" Lythande's sword-tip exploded in the blue star-glow, and
became a shimmering snake, twisting back in itself to climb past the hilt,
fangs dripping venom as it sought to coil around Lythande's fist. Lythande's
own star blazed. The sword was metal again but twisted and useless, in the
shape of the snake it had been, coiling back toward the scabbard. Enraged,
Lythande jerked free of the twisted metal, sent a spitting rain of fire in
Rabben's direction. Quickly the huge adept covered himself in fog, and the
fire-spray extinguished itself. Somewhere outside consciousness Lythande was
aware of a crowd gathering; not twice in a lifetime did two adepts of the Blue
Star battle by sorcery in the streets of Sanctuary. The blaze of the stars,
blazing from each magician's brow, raged lightnings in the square.

 
          
On
a howling wind came little torches ravening, that flickered and whipped at
Lythande; they touched the tall form of the magician and vanished. Then a wild
whirlwind sent trees lashing, leaves swirling bare from branches, and battered
Rabben to his knees. Lythande was bored; this must be finished quickly. Not one
of the goggling onlookers in the crowd knew afterward what had been done, but
Rabben bent, slowly, slowly, forced inch by inch down and down, to his knees,
to all fours, prone, pressing and grinding his face farther and farther into
the dust, rocking back and forth, pressing harder and harder into the sand . .
.

 
          
Lythande
turned and lifted the girl. She stared in disbelief at the burly sorcerer
grinding his black beard frantically into the dirt.

 
          
"What
did you
—
"

 
          
"Never
mind
—
let's get out of here. The
spell will not hold him long, and when he wakes from it he will be angry."
Neutral mockery edged Lythande's voice, and the girl could see it, too, Rabben
with beard and eyes and blue star covered with the dirt and dust
—

 
          
She
scurried along in the wake of the magician's robe; when they were well away
from the Promise of Heaven, Lythande halted, so abruptly that the girl
stumbled.

 
          
"Who
are you, girl?"

 
          
"My
name is Bercy. And yours?"

           
"A magician's name is not
lightly given. In Sanctuary they call me Lythande." Looking down at the
girl, the magician noted, with a pang, that beneath the dirt and dishevelment
she was very beautiful and very young. "You can go, Bercy. He will not
touch you again; I have bested him fairly upon challenge."

 
          
She
flung herself on to Lythande's shoulder, clinging. "Don't send me
away!" she begged, clutching, eyes filled with adoration. Lythande
scowled.

 
          
Predictable, of course.
Bercy believed, and who in Sanctuary
would have disbelieved, that the duel had been fought for the girl as prize,
and she was ready to give herself to the winner. Lythande made a gesture of
protest.