Gandrin again.
Through the south gate. Traveling north.
Now
this is ridiculous, Lythande thought. I buried the sword myself, locked there
with my strongest unbinding spell! Yet her pack bulged strangely; ripping out
a gutter obscenity, Lythande unslung the pack and discovered what she had known
she would discover the moment she felt that strange prickling cramp that told
her there was magic in use — somebody else's magic! At
the very top of the pack, wedged in awkwardly, was the white silk tunic,
draggled with the soil of the riverbank, and thrusting through it — as if, Lythande thought with a shudder, it were trying to
get out — was the larith sword.
Lythande
had not survived this long under the Twin Suns without becoming oblivious to
hysteria. The Adepts of the Blue Star held powerful magic; but every mage knew
that sooner or later, everyone would encounter magic stronger yet. Now she
felt rage rather than fear. Heartily, Lythande damned the momentary impulse of
compassion for a dying woman that led her to reveal herself. Well, done was
done. She had the larith sword and seemed likely — Lythande thought with a flicker of irony — to have it until she could devise a strong enough magic to
get rid of it again.
Was
she fit for a really prolonged magical duel? It would attract attention; and
somewhere within the walls of Old Gandrin — or
so the herb-seller had told her — there was another Adept of
the Blue Star. If she began making really powerful magic — and the unbinding-spell itself had
been a risk — sooner or later she would
attract the attention of whichever Pilgrim Adept had come here. With the kind
of luck that seemed to be dogging her, it would be one of her worst enemies
within the Order: Rabben the Half-handed, or Beccolo, or. ...
Lythande
grimaced. Bitter as it was to concede defeat, the safest course seemed to be
to go north as the Larith sword wanted. If, then, when
she arrived there, she could somehow contrive to return the sword to larith's
own shrine. She had resolved to leave Old Gandrin anyway, and one
direction was no better than another.
So
be it. She would take the damned thing north to the Forbidden Shrine, and there
she would leave it. Somehow she would manage to plant it on someone who could
enter the shrine where she could not enter . . . rather, the worst was that she could enter but dared not be known to do so. Northward, then, to
Larith's shrine —
But
within the hour, though Lythande had been in Old Gandrin for a score of
sunrises and should have known her way, the Adept was hopelessly lost. Whatever
path Lythande found through marketplace or square, thieves' market or red-lamp
quarter, however she tried to keep the sun on her right hand, within minutes
she was hopelessly turned round. Four separate times she inquired for the north
gate, and once it was actually within sight, when it seemed as if the cobbled
street would shake itself and give itself a little twist, and Lythande would
discover she was lost in the labyrinthine old streets again. Finally, exhausted,
furiously hungry and thirsty, and without a chance of finding a moment to eat
or drink in privacy now that the sun was high and the streets thronged, she
dropped grimly on the edge of a fountain in a public square, maddened by the
splashing of the water she dared not drink, and sat there to think it over.
What
did the damned thing want, anyway? She was bound north to the Forbidden Shrine
as she thought she was commanded to go, yet she was prevented by the sword, or
by the magic in the sword, from finding the northern gate, as she had been
prevented from taking the road south. Was she to stay in Old Gandrin
indefinitely? That did not seem reasonable, but then, there was nothing
reasonable about this business.
Through the south gate. Traveling north.
Now
this is ridiculous, Lythande thought. I buried the sword myself, locked there
with my strongest unbinding spell! Yet her pack bulged strangely; ripping out
a gutter obscenity, Lythande unslung the pack and discovered what she had known
she would discover the moment she felt that strange prickling cramp that told
her there was magic in use — somebody else's magic! At
the very top of the pack, wedged in awkwardly, was the white silk tunic,
draggled with the soil of the riverbank, and thrusting through it — as if, Lythande thought with a shudder, it were trying to
get out — was the larith sword.
Lythande
had not survived this long under the Twin Suns without becoming oblivious to
hysteria. The Adepts of the Blue Star held powerful magic; but every mage knew
that sooner or later, everyone would encounter magic stronger yet. Now she
felt rage rather than fear. Heartily, Lythande damned the momentary impulse of
compassion for a dying woman that led her to reveal herself. Well, done was
done. She had the larith sword and seemed likely — Lythande thought with a flicker of irony — to have it until she could devise a strong enough magic to
get rid of it again.
Was
she fit for a really prolonged magical duel? It would attract attention; and
somewhere within the walls of Old Gandrin — or
so the herb-seller had told her — there was another Adept of
the Blue Star. If she began making really powerful magic — and the unbinding-spell itself had
been a risk — sooner or later she would
attract the attention of whichever Pilgrim Adept had come here. With the kind
of luck that seemed to be dogging her, it would be one of her worst enemies
within the Order: Rabben the Half-handed, or Beccolo, or. ...
Lythande
grimaced. Bitter as it was to concede defeat, the safest course seemed to be
to go north as the Larith sword wanted. If, then, when
she arrived there, she could somehow contrive to return the sword to larith's
own shrine. She had resolved to leave Old Gandrin anyway, and one
direction was no better than another.
So
be it. She would take the damned thing north to the Forbidden Shrine, and there
she would leave it. Somehow she would manage to plant it on someone who could
enter the shrine where she could not enter . . . rather, the worst was that she could enter but dared not be known to do so. Northward, then, to
Larith's shrine —
But
within the hour, though Lythande had been in Old Gandrin for a score of
sunrises and should have known her way, the Adept was hopelessly lost. Whatever
path Lythande found through marketplace or square, thieves' market or red-lamp
quarter, however she tried to keep the sun on her right hand, within minutes
she was hopelessly turned round. Four separate times she inquired for the north
gate, and once it was actually within sight, when it seemed as if the cobbled
street would shake itself and give itself a little twist, and Lythande would
discover she was lost in the labyrinthine old streets again. Finally, exhausted,
furiously hungry and thirsty, and without a chance of finding a moment to eat
or drink in privacy now that the sun was high and the streets thronged, she
dropped grimly on the edge of a fountain in a public square, maddened by the
splashing of the water she dared not drink, and sat there to think it over.
What
did the damned thing want, anyway? She was bound north to the Forbidden Shrine
as she thought she was commanded to go, yet she was prevented by the sword, or
by the magic in the sword, from finding the northern gate, as she had been
prevented from taking the road south. Was she to stay in Old Gandrin
indefinitely? That did not seem reasonable, but then, there was nothing
reasonable about this business.
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