At
least this will teach me to mind my own business in the future!
Grimly,
Lythande considered what alternatives were open. To try and
find the burial place of the ravished Laritha and bury the sword with a
binding-spell stronger yet? Even if she could find the place, she had no
assurance that the sword would stay buried, and all kinds of assurances that it
would not. The chances now seemed that all the power of the Blue Star would be
expended in vain, unless Lythande wished to expend that kind of power that would
in turn leave her powerless for days.
To
seek safety in the Place Which Is Not, outside the boundaries of the world, and
there attempt to find out what the sword really wanted and why it would not
allow her to leave the city? For that, the cover of darkness was needful; was
she to spend this day aimlessly wandering the streets of Old Gandrin? The
smell of food from a nearby cookshop tantalized her, but she was accustomed to
that and resolutely ignored it. Later, in some deserted street or alley, some
of the dried fruit in the pockets of the mage-robe might find their way into
her mouth, but not now.
At
least she could enjoy a moment's rest here on the fountain. But even as that
thought crossed her mind, she discovered she was on her feet and moving restlessly
across the square, thrusting the little packet of smoking-herbs back into the
pocket.
She
wondered angrily where in the hells she was going now. Her hand was lightly on
the hilt of the larith sword, and she could only hope that none of the
bystanders in the street could see it or would know what it meant if they did.
She bashed into someone who snarled at her and accused her in a surly tone of
some perversion involving being a rapist of immature nanny goats. The profanity
of Old Gandrin, she concluded, was no more imaginative, and just as
repetitive, as it was anywhere beneath the blinded eye of Keth-Ketha.
Across
the fountain square, then, and into a narrow, winding street that emerged, a
good half hour's walk later, into another square, this one facing a long, narrow
barracks. Lythande was in a curiously dreamy state that she recognized, later,
as almost hypnotic; she watched herself from inside, walking purposefully across
the square, quite as if she knew where she was going and why, feeling that at
any time, if she wished, she could resist this eerie compulsion — but that was simply too much trouble; why not go along and
see what the larith wanted?
Four
men were sloshing their faces in the great water trough before the barracks,
their riding animals snorting in the water beside them. The Larith's sword was
in her hand, and one man's head was bobbing like an apple in the water trough
before Lythande knew what she — or rather, the sword — was doing. A second went down, spitted, before the other
two had their swords out. The larith sword had lost its compulsion and
was slack in her hand as she heard their outraged shouts, thinking ironically
that she was as bewildered by the whole thing as they were, or maybe more so.
She scrambled to get control of the sword, for now she was fighting for her
life. There was no way these men were going to let her escape, now that she had
slain two of their companions unprovoked. She managed to disarm one man, but
the second drove her back and back, holding her ground as best she could;
thrust, parry, recover, lunge — her foot slipped in
something slick on the ground, and she went down, staggering for the support of
the wall; somehow got the sword up and saw it go into the man's breast; he
groaned and fell across the bodies of his companions, two dead and one sorely
wounded.
Lythande
started to turn away, sickened and outraged — at
least the fifth man need not be murdered in cold blood — then realized she had no choice. That
least this will teach me to mind my own business in the future!
Grimly,
Lythande considered what alternatives were open. To try and
find the burial place of the ravished Laritha and bury the sword with a
binding-spell stronger yet? Even if she could find the place, she had no
assurance that the sword would stay buried, and all kinds of assurances that it
would not. The chances now seemed that all the power of the Blue Star would be
expended in vain, unless Lythande wished to expend that kind of power that would
in turn leave her powerless for days.
To
seek safety in the Place Which Is Not, outside the boundaries of the world, and
there attempt to find out what the sword really wanted and why it would not
allow her to leave the city? For that, the cover of darkness was needful; was
she to spend this day aimlessly wandering the streets of Old Gandrin? The
smell of food from a nearby cookshop tantalized her, but she was accustomed to
that and resolutely ignored it. Later, in some deserted street or alley, some
of the dried fruit in the pockets of the mage-robe might find their way into
her mouth, but not now.
At
least she could enjoy a moment's rest here on the fountain. But even as that
thought crossed her mind, she discovered she was on her feet and moving restlessly
across the square, thrusting the little packet of smoking-herbs back into the
pocket.
She
wondered angrily where in the hells she was going now. Her hand was lightly on
the hilt of the larith sword, and she could only hope that none of the
bystanders in the street could see it or would know what it meant if they did.
She bashed into someone who snarled at her and accused her in a surly tone of
some perversion involving being a rapist of immature nanny goats. The profanity
of Old Gandrin, she concluded, was no more imaginative, and just as
repetitive, as it was anywhere beneath the blinded eye of Keth-Ketha.
Across
the fountain square, then, and into a narrow, winding street that emerged, a
good half hour's walk later, into another square, this one facing a long, narrow
barracks. Lythande was in a curiously dreamy state that she recognized, later,
as almost hypnotic; she watched herself from inside, walking purposefully across
the square, quite as if she knew where she was going and why, feeling that at
any time, if she wished, she could resist this eerie compulsion — but that was simply too much trouble; why not go along and
see what the larith wanted?
Four
men were sloshing their faces in the great water trough before the barracks,
their riding animals snorting in the water beside them. The Larith's sword was
in her hand, and one man's head was bobbing like an apple in the water trough
before Lythande knew what she — or rather, the sword — was doing. A second went down, spitted, before the other
two had their swords out. The larith sword had lost its compulsion and
was slack in her hand as she heard their outraged shouts, thinking ironically
that she was as bewildered by the whole thing as they were, or maybe more so.
She scrambled to get control of the sword, for now she was fighting for her
life. There was no way these men were going to let her escape, now that she had
slain two of their companions unprovoked. She managed to disarm one man, but
the second drove her back and back, holding her ground as best she could;
thrust, parry, recover, lunge — her foot slipped in
something slick on the ground, and she went down, staggering for the support of
the wall; somehow got the sword up and saw it go into the man's breast; he
groaned and fell across the bodies of his companions, two dead and one sorely
wounded.
Lythande
started to turn away, sickened and outraged — at
least the fifth man need not be murdered in cold blood — then realized she had no choice. That
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