Bradley, Marion Zimmer - SSC 03 (24 page)

 
          
"My
compliments to your cook, lady; this soup is like to what my old nanny, in a
far country, made for me when I was a child." And even as she spoke, she
wondered;
is it some enchantment laid on the food?

 
          
The
lady smiled and came to sit on the bench beside Lythande. She had Tashgan's
enchanted lute in her arms, and her fingers strayed over it lovingly, bringing
small kindly sounds. "You see in me
both cook
and
feaster, servant and lady; none dwells here but I. Now tell me, stranger with
the Blue Star, how came you by Tashgan's lute? For if you took it from him by
force, be assured I shall know; no lie can dwell in my presence."

 
          
"Tashgan
made me a free gift of the lute," Lythande said, "and to my best
knowledge he is well, and lord of Tschardain; his brothers perished, and he
returned to his home. But first he must free himself of the enchantment of the
lute, which had other ideas as to how he should spend his time. And this is the
whole of the tale, lady."

 
         
The
lady
sniffed,
a small disdainful sniff. She said,
"And for that, being a little lord in a little palace, he gave up the
lute? Freely, you say, and unforced? A minstrel gave up a lute enchanted to his
measure? Stranger, I never thought Tashgan a fool!"

           
"The tale is true as I have
told it," said Lythande. "Nor is the lute such a blessing as you
might think, Lady, for in that world out there beyond the
—
the blessed confines of this very marsh, minstrels are
given
less honor
than lords or even magicians. And
freedom to wander whither one wills is perhaps even more to be desired than being
at the mercy of a wandering lute."

 
          
"Do
you speak with bitterness, minstrel?"

 
          
"Aye,"
said Lythande with heartfelt truth, "I have spent but one summer wandering
at the behest of this particular lute, and I would willingly render it to anyone
who would take its curse! Tashgan had twelve years of that curse."

 
          
"Curse,
you say?"

 
          
The
lady sprang up from the bench; her eyes glared like coals of fire at Lythande,
fire that curled and melted about her with sizzling heat; fire that glowed and
flared and streamed upward like the wings of a fire-elemental. "Curse, you
say, when it brought Tashgan yearly to my dwelling?"

 
          
Lythande
stood very still. The heat of the blue star was painful between her brows. /
do
not know who this lady may be, or what,
she thought,
but she is no
simple hearth-witch.

 
          
She
had laid aside her belt and twin daggers; she stood unprotected before the
anger and the streaming fire, and could not reach the dagger which was
effective against the creatures of enchantment. Nor, she thought, had it come
yet to that.

 
          
"Madam,
I speak for myself; Tashgan spoke not of curse but of enchantment. I am a
Pilgrim Adept, and cannot live except when I am free to wander where I will.
And even Tashgan could not linger as long beneath your gracious roof and
accept your hospitality as long as his heart might desire; and I doubt not he
found that a kind of curse."

 
          
Slowly
the fire
faded,
the streamers of blue dimming out and
dying, and the lady shrank to a normal size and looked at Lythande with a smile
that was still arrogant but had a kind of pleased simper to it.

 
          
In
the name of all the probably nonexistent Gods of Old Gandrin, what is this
woman? For woman she is, and like all women vain and greedy for praise,
Lythande
thought with scorn.

 
          
"Be
seated, stranger, and tell me your name."

 
          
"I
am
Lythande,
a Pilgrim Adept of the Blue Star, and
Tashgan gave me this lute that he might return to become Lord of Tschardain. I
am not to blame for his folly, that he willingly forwent the chance of
beholding again your great loveliness." And even as she spoke Lythande had
misgivings, could any woman actually swallow such incredible flattery? But the
woman
—
or was she a powerful
sorceress?
—
was all but purring.

 
          
"Well,
his loss is his own choice, and it has brought you here to me, my dear. Have
you then Tashgan's skill with the lute?"

 
          
That
would not take much doing,
thought Lythande, but said modestly that of
this,
only the Lady must be the judge. "Is it your
desire that I play for you, Madam?"

 
          
"Please.
But shall I bring you wine? Tashgan, dear boy, loved the wine I serve."

 
          
"No,
no wine," Lythande said. She wanted her wits fully about her. "I have
dined so well, I would not spoil that taste in memory. Rather I would enjoy
your presence with my mind undimmed by the fumes of wine," she added, and
the lady beamed.

 
          
"Play, my dear."

 
          
Lythande
set her fingers to the lute, and
sang,
a love-song
from the distant hills of her homeland.

 
          
A
single sweet apple clings to the top of the branch;

           
The pickers did not forget
But
could not reach;'

           
Like the apple, you are not
forgotten,

           
But only too high
and far from my hands.

           
I long to taste that forbidden
sweetness.

 
          
Lythande
looked up at last at the woman by the fire. Well, she had done a foolish thing;
she should have sung a comic ballad or a tale of knightly and heroic deeds.
This was not the first time she had seen a woman eager for more than
flirtation, thinking Lythande a handsome young man. Was that one of the
qualities of the enchantment of the lute, that it inspired woman hearers with
desire for the player? Judging by what had happened on this journey, she would
not be at all surprised.

 
          
It
grows late," said the Lady softly, "time for a night of love such as
I often shared with Tashgan, dear lad." And she reached out to touch
Lythande lightly on the shoulder; Lythande remembered the farmer's wife. A
woman rejected could be dangerous.

 
          
Lythande
mumbled "I could not presume so high; I am no Lord but a poor
minstrel."

 
          
"In
my domain," said the lady, "minstrels are honored above princes or
lords."

 
          
This
was too ridiculous, Lythande thought. She had loved women; but if this woman
had been Tashgan's mistress, she would not seek among women for a lover.
Besides, Lythande was not happy with the thought of Tashgan's leavings.

 
          
The
geas
she was under was literal; she might reveal herself to no
man. 1
am
not sure this harpy is a woman,
Lythande thought,
but I am certain she is no man
.

 
          
"Do
you mock at me, minstrel?" the woman demanded. "Do you think
yourself too good for my favors?" Once again it seemed that fire streamed
from her hair, from the spread wings of her sleeves. And at that moment Lythande
knew what she saw.

           
"Alnath," she whispered,
and held out her hand. Yet nothing
so
simple as a
fire-elemental; this was a were-dragon in full strength, and she remembered the
fate of Ellifanwy.

 
          
Lady,"
she said, "you do me too much honor, for I am not Tashgan, nor even a man.
I am but a humble minstrel woman."

 
          
She
bowed her head before the flames suddenly surrounding her. Were-dragons were
always of uncertain temper; but this one chose to be amused; flames licked
around Lythande with the gusting laughter, but Lythande knew that if she showed
the slightest fear, she was doomed.

 
          
Calling
up the memory of the fire-elemental, Lythande made a clear picture in her mind
of Alnath perched on her wrist, flames sweeping gracefully upward. She felt
again the sense of kinship she had experienced with the little fire-elemental,
and it enabled her to look up and smile at the were-dragon confronting her.

 
          
The
gusts of laughter subsided to a chuckle, and once again it was woman not dragon
confronting Lythande: the little hearth-witch. "And did Tashgan know your
sex
—
or did he expect you to take
over his round in all things?"

 
          
Lythande
said ruefully "The latter, judging by the instructions he gave me,' and
the lady was laughing again.

 
          
"You
must have had a most
interesting
journey here, my dear!"

 
          
Lythande's
mind suddenly started working furiously, recalling quite clearly the
instructions Tashgan had given her. He had definitely been amused about
something: yet Lythande was sure he had not known her secret. No, what amused
him had been . . . "Beauty!" The lady was regarding her attentively.
"By any chance, Lady, was he given to calling you
—
Beauty?"

           
"The dear
boy!
He
remembered!”
The lady was positively simpering.

 
          
He
certainly did,
Lythande thought grimly.
And
boyish is
a mild
description of his sense of humor! Perhaps he thought me as vulnerable to
playing with fire as EUifanwy?
It would have amused Tashgan to send her to
share Ellifanwy's fate. Aloud she said, "He asked me to give you his
love." Her hostess looked pleased, but Lythande decided that a bit more
flattery would probably help. "Of all the sacrifices he made for his
throne, you were the one he regretted most. His duty called him to Tschardain."
She hesitated slightly, remembering the look in the dragon-woman's eyes at the
sight of the lute. "If you would not object, I think this affair would
make a splendid romantic ballad." By now the were-dragon was virtually
purring.

 
          
"Nothing
would delight me more, my dear, than to serve as inspiration to art."

 
          
"And,"
Lythande continued, "I would be honored
—
and I know it would give Tashgan the greatest pleasure
—
if you would accept this lute as a small token of the
devotion we feel toward you."

 
          
Flame
flared almost to the ceiling; but the were-dragon's face was wreathed in joyous
smiles as she gently took up the lute and caressed the strings.

 
          
Early
the next morning, Lythande took cordial leave of her hostess. As she picked a
careful way through the bog she could hear the strumming of the lute behind
her. The were-dragon had more musical ability than Prince Tashgan, that was
certain, but the ballad that formed in Lythande's mind was not of love bravely
sacrificed to duty, but of a wandering were-dragon minstrel and an unexpected
guest at the Yule-feast in Taschardain. Making a mental note to spend Yule in
Northwander
—
if not even farther north
—
Lythande left the bog behind her and went laughing up the
northward road.

 
          
One
of the rules of the original
Thieves World
anthology was that
characters were free to write about other people's characters, although with
certain restrictions, e.g. no killing off or reforming someone else's character.

 
          
When
Vonda, whom I esteem very highly, sent me a copy of this story, it seemed that
in essence she had "reformed" Lythande, for in Vonda's original
draft, Lythande agreed to return home with Westerly and her crew, in essence
giving up her wandering life. This struck me as an almost too-good solution of
Lythande's future, but I coiddn't see Lythande doing anything so sensible. I
conveyed my doubts to Vonda, and she obligingly rewrote the end in a way which
made it clear that Lythande was accepting this as a temporary solution to her
difficulties in the world where she was.

 
          
But
when she goes again to roaming, no doubt there will be other adventures in
different worlds . . .for the essence of Lythande's magic is that she crosses
worlds at will; she can be not only wherever but whenever she chooses. . . .