Wrede, Patricia C - SSC (10 page)

"Yes. I should have seen
before. You are blind, Evan." Her voice shook.

"Ah." He closed his eyes.
"Well, take my life, then. It is the price I agreed to, and it is no
longer much hardship to pay."

"No, Evan. The earth magic
does not want your death, but your life." Her voice sank almost to a
whisper. "I tried to warn you that there would be a price."

"The price was you!" Evan
shouted. "Why else do you think I did this?" He tried to raise the
stump of his arm and nearly fainted again from the pain.

"You crippled yourself because
you were already blind," she answered, and he could hear the ring of power
in her voice and knew that she spoke as the Earthwitch and not only Mariel.
"You would not see what the earth tried to show you, so now you do not see
at all. The price of the magic is your life and service."

"Like this? Blind and
crippled?" he spat. "How can I live like this?"

"You must learn." The
voice was gently implacable. "I will help you, if I can. But live you
must. You are the earth's, now."

"You cannot help me
rule," Evan said. "Even if I could persuade the people to accept a
cripple as king—"

"You still do not understand,"
Mariel said sharply. "You are a king no longer. Your life belongs to the
earth; when you are recovered and have sufficient training, you will become the
next Earthwitch."

"You would have me be a blind
mage." He snorted. "No."

"What the earth has taken, the
earth can restore, if you accept what it shows you," Mariel said. "In
any case you have no choice in this."

She hesitated, and the echo of the
Earth magic faded from her voice. When she continued, he heard only Mariel.
"It is not forever. You will serve seven years, as I have. When you have
trained your successor, you will be free. And then—"

"And then?" He felt a
wisp of hope.

"And then perhaps we will both
be strong enough to be simply Evan and Mariel," she said slowly, as if the
thought was so new to her that she must test each word as she spoke it.

Evan felt a hand on his good arm.
Reluctantly, he let Mariel help him up and lead him carefully to the stairs.

The tiny sword-seller's booth was
almost hidden behind a row of tinker's stalls and jewelry stands; Auridan very
nearly passed by without seeing it at all. When he did notice it, he paused.
Then he shouldered his way toward it with a smile. He needed a sword, and half
the fun of a fair was hunting bargains in the smaller booths.

The booth's proprietor, an old man
in a dark blue robe, looked up as Auridan ducked under the awning. Auridan
braced himself for the usual exhortations, but the man regarded him with a
silent, unblinking stare. Auridan gave a mental shrug and bent over the
counter. He was surprised at the disorder he found; knives, daggers, and swords
of all lengths were jumbled as randomly as a child's game of catch-straws. Some
had sheaths, some did not; some were polished and sharpened, others were black
with age. A cursory glance was enough to tell Auridan that nothing here was
likely to be worth haggling over. He shrugged again and turned to go. As he
did, a glint of color caught his eye.

Auridan stopped. A blue stone
winked at him through a gap in the crisscrossed pile of weapons. Auridan moved
two swords and four daggers and uncovered an ancient short-sword without a
sheath. The blue stone was one of a pair set in the hilt, amid carving so
clogged with grime that it was impossible to determine what the decoration
represented. The blade of the sword was black with age, and thicker and wider
than those Auridan was used to. Almost in spite of himself, Auridan lifted the
sword, testing the heft. The hilt fit his hand as if it had been made to measure,
and the balance of the blade was perfect.

"That sword is not for
sale," a harsh voice rasped.

Auridan started and looked across
the counter into the unfathomable eyes of the sword-seller. "If it is
already spoken for, you should not display it with the rest of your
wares," Auridan said in mild annoyance. He twisted the blade from side to
side, studying it with regret. It would be a deal of work to clean and sharpen,
but something about the weapon called to him . . . He shook himself and held
the sword out to the sword-seller.

The old man made no move to take it
from him. "I did not say the sword was spoken for," he said.

"No, I suppose you
didn't," Auridan replied with a smile. "But what else am I to think
when you refuse to sell it?"

"Think as you will," the
man said, "so long as you do not think to buy that sword."

"As you will," Auridan
said. Again he held out the sword. The old man sat watching him with the same
unblinking stare.

"Very well, then."
Auridan set the sword down gently atop the welter of other weapons in front of
the old man. His fingers uncurled reluctantly from the hilt, and as he stepped
away from the counter he was surprised to find that his breathing had
quickened. "Good day, and fortune follow you," he said, and turned
away. "Wait."

Auridan looked back, but kept one
hand poised to lift the fringe of the awning. "What is it?"

"The sword is not for sale. It
is given. Today, it is given to you. Take it."

Auridan stared. Was the old man
mad? Even an old and battered sword was worth a good deal, and this weapon was
well made. The sword-seller looked as though he could make good use of whatever
coin it would bring. "Why would you give me the sword?"

"That is my affair," the
old man said. "The sword is yours. Take it."

Auridan heard finality in the
sword-seller's voice, and the man's eyes were bright and knowing. They did not
look like the eyes of a madman. Auridan reached for the hilt of the sword, then
hesitated. Whatever the reason for this strange offer, he could not take such
advantage of an old man. His hand went to the pouch at his belt and removed
half of the scanty coins remaining. He held them out to the sword-seller.
"Here. It's not the worth of such a weapon, by any means, but—"

"The sword is a gift!"
the old man snapped. "Did I not say it?"

"I'll take it as a purchase,
or not at all," Auridan said. Briefly, he wondered if he had not run as
mad as the old sword-seller. Forcing a merchant to take coin at a fair! Whoever
heard of such backward bargaining?

The old man snorted. "Take the
sword and go."

Auridan shrugged. He tossed the
coins onto the counter, where they made tiny noises as they clinked against the
jumbled weapons and fell into the spaces between them. Only then did he put his
hand to the hilt of the ancient sword.

"For your courtesy, I give
thanks," Auridan said, and picked up the weapon.

He thought he saw a flash of worry
in the sword-seller's eyes. Then the man said, "You are a blank shield. I
am sometimes asked to recommend such men to those who seek to hire them. If
someone asks, where shall I send him?"

Auridan blinked in surprise, but
said courteously that he could probably be found in the serving tent after
sunset. He thanked the man and left, wondering why he had bothered. He doubted
that anyone would seek to hire a mercenary by such roundabout methods. Still,
he thought the suggestion had been well meant. He put the matter out of his
mind and began looking for a leather-maker's booth where he could buy a sheath
for the sword.

For the next several hours, Auridan
strolled among the booths and tents, enjoying the warm sunshine and watching
the eager, noisy crowds. The annual Fyndale fair had been resumed shortly after
the end of the long war with the Hounds of Alizon, and it had grown every year
since. Ten merchants' flags had flown above the booths at that first fair; now,
four years later, there were thirty or more, and the tents and carts and tables
of the lesser tradesmen sprawled in a disorderly semicircle around the gray
stone pillar where men swore to keep the peace of the fair.

Auridan remembered that first fair
well. Unlike so many of his erstwhile comrades in the war against Alizon, he'd
been restless and disinclined to settle down. By a lucky chance, he'd met one
of the lords from the south who'd been dispossessed during the war. Auridan had
taken service with him, and they had spent several years fighting in the
southern part of High Hallack. Eventually, the lord and his men had prevailed,
but the substance of his keep had been wasted in the struggle, and Auridan was not
of a mind to squat there waiting for the man to rebuild his fortune. He had
taken the lord's blessing, and the few coins that could be spared, and come
back to Fyndale in search of another patron.

He studied the crowd as he walked
along, and for the first time began to doubt the wisdom of the decision he had
made with such blithe confidence. Most of the fairgoers looked prosperous and
contented— good signs for the merchants, perhaps, but not so promising for a
blank shield mercenary looking for someone in need of a guard or a soldier.

Well, if nothing else, he could
hire on with a merchant returning home from the fair, Auridan thought
philosophically. Merchants were notoriously nervous about bandits, particularly
when there were profits to protect, and from the look of things, this fair
would be profitable for nearly all of them. Feeling somewhat more cheerful,
Auridan headed toward the serving tent, to purchase a cup of wine and consider
what to do next.

Two drinks later, he had still not
thought of anything. He was just beginning his third when a light, musical
voice said, "Fair fortune to you, traveler. Are you the blank shield the
sword-seller told me of?"

Auridan looked up, and his reply
died on his lips. The woman who stood beside him had the kind of beauty
songsmiths broke their strings over. Her thick, butter-colored braids coiled
into a high knot above a classic oval face. Her skin was fair and flawless, her
eyes a serene hazel. She was tall and slender, and her cloak and robe were of
fine wool, heavily embroidered. She could be no more than twenty, but her
bearing proclaimed a confidence beyond her years.

She must be daughter to one of the
Dales lords, Auridan thought dazedly; then his bemused wits began working again
and he rose to his feet and raised his hand palm-out in greeting. "Fair
fortune to you, lady. I am Auridan; how may I serve you?"

The woman's lips compressed very
slightly; then she sighed and motioned for Auridan to seat himself once more.
She took the place beside him and said, "I wish to hire a man to guide and
guard me on a journey. I have been told that you are a man of honor and would
suit my purposes."

"I have done such work
before," Auridan admitted. "What direction do you travel and with how
large a party?"

The woman bit her lip and looked
down; suddenly she seemed much younger, barely out of girlhood. Then she raised
her chin and said defiantly, "I wish to go north, to Abbey Norstead. And
the party will consist of we two only; I will take no others with me." She
added solemnly, "It is why I particularly wish to hire an honorable man."

Auridan swallowed a chuckle, but
shook his head. "I fear you have not considered, lady," he said
gently, even as he wondered why such a girl as this would wish to enter the
abbey. "The effects of the war linger; travel is still not safe. I cannot
believe your kinsmen would allow—"

"The last of my kin by blood
is at Abbey Norstead," the girl broke in pointedly.

"Then you'd do far better to
stay in Fyndale for a week or so, until the fair ends, and hire passage in a
merchant's train. I'm sure that at least one or two will head toward
Norsdale."

"I've no mind to wait so
long," she retorted. "Nor do I wish to move at a snail's pace,
stopping at every village and hamlet in hopes of another sale."

"I see you've journeyed with
merchants before," Auridan said, amused.

"Two travelers alone may well
be safer than a larger group," she persisted. "For two can hide, or
slip away silently in darkness, where more cannot."

"A single guard may also be
easily taken by two or three outlaws, who would never think to attack a
stronger party," Auridan pointed out. "And with such a one as you to
tempt—"

"I am not helpless!" she
interrupted angrily. "I know the use of a sword, though I am better with a
bow."

Without thinking, Auridan raised a
skeptical eyebrow. The girl saw, and her eyes flashed. "You think that
because I am beautiful I have no thoughts in my head save silks and jewelry,
and no skill in my hands but embroidery!" she said scornfully.
"Faugh! I'm sick to death of men who see nothing but my face!"

Before Auridan could answer, a
man's voice cut across the hum of talk surrounding them. "Cyndal! There
you are at last!'' The girl stiffened, and Auridan looked around for the source
of the cry.

He found the speaker quickly—a
tall, brown-haired man of perhaps thirty years, dressed in a tunic of fine
crimson wool. He was making his way quickly through the crowd, his eyes fixed
on the girl beside Auridan. "Hervan," the girl muttered, and she
spoke as if the name were a curse. "He would!"

The brown-haired man reached the
table. He ignored Auridan and said in a chiding tone, "My dear Cyndal!
What do you here, and in such company? My lady has been frantic since she found
you missing!"

"I don't believe you,
Hervan," the girl replied, unmoved. "Chathalla knew I was going out,
and I've barely been gone an hour. She wouldn't fuss over such a thing."

"Chathalla's nerves are
particularly fragile just now," the brown-haired man said defensively.

"Your concern for your lady
wife does you credit," Cyndal said in a dry tone.

"I could wish you had had as
much consideration. What she will say when she knows where I found you
..." He glanced disapprovingly around the serving tent, and his eyes came
to rest on Auridan.

"Don't tell her," Cyndal
suggested.

"Don't be ridiculous, Cyndal.
You shouldn't be wandering around the fair alone; you know that. Come on, I'll
take you back to the tent."

"I haven't finished my
discussion with Auridan," Cyndal said.

"Cyndal, be reasonable!"

Hervan's tone was patronizing, and
Auridan felt a wave of dislike for the young Dales lord. He decided to
intervene. "But she is," Auridan put in pleasantly. "Being
reasonable, I mean."

Hervan stared at him in blank
astonishment, and Auridan gestured at the cup of wine he had been drinking.
Fortunately, it was still three-quarters full, and he had set it down between
Cyndal and himself, so that it was impossible to tell to which of them the cup
belonged. "My lady has not yet finished her wine. Surely you do not think
it would be reasonable for her to leave it behind?"

"Indeed." Hervan looked
from Auridan to Cyndal, and the question in his expression was clear. Cyndal's
lips tightened, but she presented Auridan as graciously as if they were at the
court of one of the High Lords of the Dales instead of in a serving tent at a
fair. She did not, Auridan noticed, mention what she had been discussing with
him.

Hervan's expression cleared before
Cyndal was half finished with her explanation. "A blank shield? How
fortunate! I am in need of a Master of Arms; come to me tomorrow and we'll talk
of it."

"Why, thank you, my
lord," Auridan said, forcing his lips into a smile. "Tomorrow
evening, perhaps? I would not wish to interfere with your fairing."

"I will look for you
then," Hervan promised. "Now, Cyndal—"

"But Lady Cyndal still has not
finished her wine," Auridan cut in smoothly. "Surely it won't matter
if she stays here a little longer. I will be happy to escort her back if you
wish to return and reassure your lady wife."

Hervan hesitated visibly, but he
could not refuse without giving the impression that he did not trust Auridan.
That would make Hervan look foolish, since he had just offered to take Auridan into
his service. Hervan bowed graciously, showered Auridan with insincere thanks,
and left at last.