The Way of the Wizard

The Secret of the Blue Star Marion Zimmer Bradley

On a night in Sanctuary, when the streets bore a false glamour in the silver glow of a full moon, so that every ruin seemed an enchanted tower and every dark street and square an island of mystery, the mercenary-magician Lythande sallied forth to seek adventure.

Lythande had but recently returned — if the mysterious comings and goings of a magician can be called by so prosaic a name — from guarding a caravan across the Grey Wastes to Twand. Somewhere in the wastes, a gaggle of desert rats — two-legged rats with poisoned steel teeth — had set upon the caravan, not knowing it was guarded by magic, and had found themselves fighting skeletons that bowled and fought with eyes of flame; and at their center a tall magician with a blue star between blazing eyes, a star that shot lightnings of a cold and paralyzing flame. So the desert rats ran, and never stopped running until they reached Aurvesh, and the tales they told did Lythande no harm except in the ears of the pious.

And so there was gold in the pockets of the long, dark magician’s robe, or perhaps concealed in whatever dwelling sheltered Lythande. For at the end, the caravan master had been almost more afraid of Lythande than he was of the bandits, a situation that added to the generosity with which he rewarded the magician. According to custom, Lythande neither smiled nor frowned, but remarked, days later, to Myrtis, the proprietor of the Aphrodisia House in the Street of Red Lanterns, that sorcery, while a useful skill and filled with many aesthetic delights for the contemplation of the philosopher, in itself put no beans on the table.

A curious remark, that, Myrtis pondered, putting away the ounce of gold Lythande had bestowed upon her in consideration of a secret which lay many years behind them both. Curious that Lythande should speak of beans on the table, when no one but herself had ever seen a bite of food or a drop of drink pass the magician’s lips since the blue star had adorned that high and narrow brow. Nor had any woman in the quarter even been able to boast that a great magician had paid for her favors, or been able to imagine how such a magician behaved in that situation when all men were alike reduced to flesh and blood.

Perhaps Myrtis could have told if she would; some other girls thought so, when, as sometimes happened, Lythande came to the Aphrodisia House and was closeted long with its owner; even, on rare intervals, for an entire night. It was said, of Lythande, that the Aphrodisia House itself had been the magician’s gift to Myrtis, after a famous adventure still whispered in the bazaar, involving an evil wizard, two horse traders, a caravan master, and a few assorted toughs who had prided themselves upon never giving gold for any woman and thought it funny to cheat an honest working woman. None of them had ever showed their faces — what was left of them — in Sanctuary again, and Myrtis boasted that she need never again sweat to earn her living, and never again entertain a man, but would claim her madam’s privilege of a solitary bed.

And then, too, the girls thought, a magician of Lythande’s stature could have claimed the most beautiful women from Sanctuary to the mountains beyond Ilsig; not courtesans alone, but princesses and noblewomen and priestesses would have been for Lythande’s taking. Myrtis had doubtless been beautiful in her youth, and certainly she boasted enough of the princes and wizards and travelers who had paid great sums for her love. She was beautiful still (and of course there were those who said that Lythande did not pay her, but that, on the contrary, Myrtis paid the magician great sums to maintain her aging beauty with strong magic) but her hair had gone grey and she no longer troubled to dye it with henna or goldenwash from Tyrisis-beyond-the-sea.

But if Myrtis were not the woman who knew how Lythande behaved in that most elemental of situations, then there was no woman in Sanctuary who could say. Rumor said also that Lythande called up female demons from the Gray Wastes, to couple in lechery, and certainly Lythande was neither the first nor the last magician of whom that could be said.

But on this night Lythande sought neither food nor drink nor the delights of amorous entertainment; although Lythande was a great frequenter of taverns, no man had ever yet seen drop of ale or mead or fire-drink pass the barrier of the magician’s lips. Lythande walked along the far edge of the bazaar, skirting the old rim of the Governor’s Palace, keeping to the shadows in defiance of footpads and cutpurses. She possessed a love for shadows which made the folk of the city say that Lythande could appear and disappear into thin air.

Tall and thin, Lythande, above the height of a tall man, lean to emaciation, with the blue-star-shaped tattoo of the magician-adept above thin, arching eyebrows; wearing a long, hooded robe which melted into the shadows. Clean-shaven, the face of Lythande, or beardless — none had come close enough, in living memory, to say whether this was the whim of an effeminate or the hairlessness of a freak. The hair beneath the hood was as long and luxuriant as a woman’s, but greying, as no woman in this city of harlots would have allowed it to do.

Striding quickly along a shadowed wall, Lythande stepped through an open door, over which the sandal of Thufir, god of pilgrims, had been nailed up for luck; but the footsteps were so soft, and the hooded robe blended so well into the shadows, that eyewitnesses would later swear, truthfully, that they had seen Lythande appear from the air, protected by sorceries, or by a cloak of invisibility.

Around the hearth fire, a group of men were banging their mugs together noisily to the sound of a rowdy drinking song, strummed on a worn and tinny lute — Lythande knew it belonged to the tavernkeeper, and could be borrowed — by a young man, dressed in fragments of foppish finery, torn and slashed by the chances of the road. He was sitting lazily, with one knee crossed over the other; and when the rowdy song died away, the young man drifted into another, a quiet love song from another time and another country. Lythande had known the song, more years ago than bore remembering, and in those days Lythande the magician had borne another name and had known little of sorcery. When the song died, Lythande had stepped from the shadows, visible, and the firelight glinted on the blue star, mocking at the center of the high forehead.

There was a little muttering in the tavern, but they were not unaccustomed to Lythande’s invisible comings and goings. The young man raised eyes which were surprisingly blue beneath the black hair elaborately curled above his brow. He was slender and agile, and Lythande marked the rapier at his side, which looked well handled, and the amulet, in the form of a coiled snake, at his throat. The young man said, “Who are you, who has the habit of coming and going into thin air like that?”

“One who compliments your skill at song.” Lythande flung a coin to the tapster’s bay. “Will you drink?’

“A minstrel never refuses such an invitation. Singing is dry work.” But when the drink was brought, he said, “Not drinking with me, then?”

“No man has ever seen Lythande eat or drink,” muttered one of the men in the circle round them.

“Why, then, I hold that unfriendly,” cried the young minstrel. “A friendly drink between comrades shared is one thing; but I am no servant to sing for pay or to drink except as a friendly gesture!”

Lythande shrugged, and the blue star above the high brow began to glimmer and give forth blue light. The onlookers slowly edged backward, for when a wizard who wore the blue star was angered, bystanders did well to be out of the way. The minstrel set down the lute, so it would be well out of range if he must leap to his feet. Lythande knew, by the excruciating slowness of his movements and great care, that he had already shared a good many drinks with chance-met comrades. But the minstrel’s hand did not go to his sword hilt but instead closed like a fist over the amulet in the form of a snake.

“You are like no man I have ever met before,” he observed mildly, and Lythande, feeling inside the little ripple, nerve-long, that told a magician he was in the presence of spellcasting, hazarded quickly that the amulet was one of those which would not protect its master unless the wearer first stated a set number of truths — usually three or five — about the owner’s attacker or foe. Wary, but amused, Lythande said, “A true word. Nor am I like any man you will ever meet, live you never so long, minstrel.”

The minstrel saw, beyond the angry blue glare of the star, a curl of friendly mockery in Lythande’s mouth. He said, letting the amulet go, “And I wish you no ill; and you wish me none, and those are true sayings too, wizard, hey? And there’s an end of that. But although perhaps you are like to no other, you are not the only wizard I have seen in Sanctuary who bears a blue star about his forehead.”

Now the blue star blazed rage, but not for the minstrel. They both knew it. The crowd around them had all mysteriously discovered that they had business elsewhere. The minstrel looked at the empty benches.

“I must go elsewhere to sing for my supper, it seems.”

“I meant you no offense when I refused to share a drink,” said Lythande. “A magician’s vow is not as lightly overset as a lute. Yet I may guest-gift you with dinner and drink in plenty without loss of dignity, and in return ask a service of a friend, may I not?”

“Such is the custom of my country. Cappen Varra thanks you, magician.”

“Tapster! Your best dinner for my guest, and all he can drink tonight!”

“For such liberal guesting I’ll not haggle about the service,” Cappen Varra said, and set to the smoking dishes brought before him. As he ate, Lythande drew from the folds of his robe a small pouch containing a quantity of sweet-smelling herbs, rolled them into a blue-grey leaf, and touched his ring to spark the roll alight. He drew on the smoke, which drifted up sweet and greyish.

“As for the service, it is nothing so great; tell me all you know of this other wizard who wears the blue star. I know of none other of my order south of Azehur, and I would be certain you did not see me, nor my wraith.”

Cappen Varra sucked at a marrowbone and wiped his fingers fastidiously on the tray-cloth beneath the meats. He bit into a ginger-fruit before replying.

“Not you, wizard, nor your fetch or doppelgänger; this one had shoulders brawnier by half, and he wore no sword, but two daggers cross-girt astride his hips. His beard was black; and his left hand missing three fingers.”

“Iles of the Thousand Eyes! Rabben the Half-handed, here in Sanctuary! Where did you see him, minstrel?”

“I saw him crossing the bazaar; but he bought nothing that I saw. And I saw him in the Street of Red Lanterns, talking to a woman. What service am I to do for you, magician?”

“You have done it." Lythande gave silver to the tavernkeeper — so much that the surly man bade Shalpa’s cloak cover him as he went — and laid another coin, gold this time, beside the borrowed lute.

“Redeem your harp; that one will do your voice no boon.” But when the minstrel raised his head in thanks, the magician had gone unseen into the shadows.

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 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 if 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 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.

“Greetings 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 bill 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. Rabbet, 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 Avenue 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 torn 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 Ils! 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 madam 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 starglow, and became a shimmering snake, twisting back on 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 onto 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.

“No—”

The girl narrowed her eyes in pity. “Is it then with you as Rabben said — that your secret is that you have been deprived of manhood?” But beyond the pity was a delicious flicker of amusement — what a tidbit of gossip! A juicy bit for the Streets of Women.

“Silence.” Lythande’s glance was imperative. “Come.”

She followed, along the twisting streets that led into the Street of Red Lanterns. Lythande strode with confidence, now, past the House of Mermaids, where, it was said, delights as exotic as the name promised were to be found; past the House of Whips, shunned by all except those who refused to go elsewhere; and at last, beneath the face of the Green Lady as she was worshiped far away and beyond Ranke, the Aphrodisia House.

Bercy looked around, eyes wide, at the pillared lobby, the brilliance of a hundred lanterns, the exquisitely dressed women lounging on cushions till they were summoned. They were finely dressed and bejeweled — Myrtis knew her trade, and how to present her wares — and Lythande guessed that the ragged Bercy’s glance was one of envy; she had probably sold herself in the bazaar for a few coppers or for a loaf of bread, since she was old enough. Yet somehow, like flowers covering a dungheap, she had kept exquisite fresh beauty, all gold and white, flowerlike. Even ragged and half-starved, she touched Lythande’s heart.

“Bercy, have you eaten today?”

“No, master.”

Lythande summoned the huge eunuch Jiro, whose business it was to conduct the favored customers to the chambers of their chosen women, and throw out the drunks and abusive customers into the street. He came, huge-bellied, naked except for a skimpy loincloth and a dozen rings in his ear — he had once had a lover who was an earring-seller and had used him to display her wares.

“How may we serve the magician Lythande?”

The women on the couches and cushions were twittering at one another in surprise and dismay, and Lythande could almost hear their thoughts:

None of us has been able to attract or seduce the great magician, and this ragged street wench has caught his eyes? And, being women, Lythande knew, they could see the unclouded beauty that shone through the girl’s rags.

“Is Madame Myrtis available, Jiro?”

“She’s sleeping, O great wizard, but for you she’s given orders she’s to be waked at any hour. Is this”—no one alive can be quite so supercilious as the chief eunuch of a fashionable brothel—“yours, Lythande, or a gift for my madame?”

“Both, perhaps. Give her something to eat and find her a place to spend the night.”

“And a bath, magician? She has fleas enough to louse a floorful of cushions!”

“A bath, certainly, and a bath woman with scents and oils,” Lythande said, “and something in the nature of a whole garment.”

“Leave it to me,” said Jim expansively, and Bercy looked at Lythande in dread, but went when the magician gestured to her to go. As Jiro took her away, Lythande saw Myrtis standing in the doorway; a heavy woman, no longer young, but with the frozen beauty of a spell. Through the perfect spelled framers, her eyes were warm and welcoming as she smiled at Lythande.

“My dear, I had not expected to see you here. Is that yours?” She moved her head toward the door through which Jiro had conducted the frightened Bercy. “She’ll probably run away, you know, once you take your eyes off her.”

“I wish I thought so, Myrtis. But no such luck, I fear.”

“You had batter tell me the whole story,” Myrtis said, and listened to Lythande’s brief, succinct account of the affair.

“And if you laugh, Myrtis, I take back my spell and leave your grey hairs and wrinkles open to the mockery of everyone in Sanctuary!”

But Myrtis had known Lythande too long to take that threat very seriously. “So the maiden you rescued is all maddened with desire for the love of Lythande!” She chuckled. “It is like an old ballad, indeed!”

“But what am I to do, Myrtis? By the paps of Shipri the All-Mother, this is a dilemma!”

“Take her into your confidence and tell her why your love cannot be hers,” Myrtis said.

Lythande frowned. “You hold my Secret, since I had no choice; you knew me before I was made magician, or bore the blue star—”

“And before I was a harlot,” Myrtis agreed.

“But if I make this girl feel like a fool for loving me, she will hate me as much as she loves; and I cannot confide in anyone I cannot trust with my life and my power. All I have is yours, Myrtis, because of that past we shared. And that includes my power, if you ever should need it. But I cannot entrust it to this girl.”

“Still she owes you something, for delivering her out of the hands of Rabben.”

Lythande said, “I will think about it; and now make haste to bring me food, for I am hungry and athirst.” Taken to a private room, Lythande ate and drank, served by Myrtis’s own hands. And Myrtis said, “I could never have sworn your vow — to eat and drink in the sight of no man!”

“If you sought the power of a magician, you would keep it well enough,” said Lythande. “I am seldom tempted now to break it; I fear only lest I break it unawares; I cannot drink in a tavern lest among the women there might be some one of those strange men who find diversion in putting on the garments of a female; even here I will not eat or drink among your women, for that reason. All power depends on the vows and the secret.”

“Then I cannot aid you,” Myths said, “but you are not bound to speak truth to her; tell her you have vowed to live without women.”

“I may do that,” Lythande said, and finished the food, scowling.

Later Bercy was brought in, wide-eyed, enthralled by her fine gown and her freshly washed hair, that softly curled about her pink-and-white face. The sweet scent of bath oils and perfumes hung about her.

“The girls here wear such pretty clothes, and one of them told me they could eat twice a day if they wished! Am I pretty enough, do you think, that Madame Myrtis would have me here?”

“If that is what you wish. You are more than beautiful.”

Bercy said boldly, “I would rather belong to you, magician,” and flung herself again on Lythande, her hands clutching and clinging, dragging the lean face down to hers. Lythande, who rarely touched anything living, held her gently, trying not to reveal consternation.

“Bercy, child, this is only a fancy. It will pass.”

“No,” she wept. “I love you, I want only you!”

And then, unmistakably, along the magician’s nerves, Lythande felt that little ripple, that warning thrill of tension which said: spellcasting is in use. Not against Lythande. That could have been countered. But somewhere within the room.

Here, in the Aphrodisia House? Myrtis, Lythande knew, could be trusted with life, reputation, fortune, the magical power of the Blue Star itself; she had been tested before this. Had she altered enough to turn betrayer, it would have been apparent in her aura when Lythande came near.

That left only the girl, who was clinging and whimpering, “I will die if you do not love me! I will die! Tell me it is not true, Lythande, that you are unable to love! Tell me it is an evil lie that magicians are emasculated, incapable of loving women…. ”

“That is certainly an evil he,” Lythande agreed gravely. “I give you my solemn assurance that I have never been emasculated.” But Lythande’s nerves tingled as the words were spoken. A magician might lie, and most of them did. Lythande would lie as readily as any other, in a good cause. But the law of the Blue Star was this: when questioned directly on a matter bearing directly on the Secret, the Adept might not tell a direct lie. And Bercy, unknowing, was only one question away from the fatal one hiding the Secret.

With a mighty effort, Lythande’s magic wrenched at the very fabric of Time itself; the girl stood motionless, aware of no lapse, as Lythande stepped away far enough to read her aura. And yes, there within the traces of that vibrating field was the shadow of the Blue Star. Rabben’s; overpowering her will.

Rabben. Rabben the Half-handed, who had set his will on the girl, who had staged and contrived the whole thing, including the encounter where the girl had needed rescue; put the girl under a spell to attract and bespell Lythande.

The law of the Blue Star forbade one Adept of the Star to kill another; for all would be needed to fight side by side, on the last day, against Chaos. Yet if one adept could prise forth the secret of another’s power… then the powerless one was not needed against Chaos and could be killed.

What could be done now? Kill the girl? Rabben would take that, too, as an answer; Bercy had been so bespelled as to be irresistible to any man; if Lythande sent her away untouched, Rabben would know that Lythande’s Secret lay in that area and would never rest in his attempts to uncover it. For if Lythande was untouched by this sex spell to make Bercy irresistible, then Lythande was a eunuch, or a homosexual, or… sweating, Lythande dared not even think beyond that. The Secret was safe only if never questioned. It would not be read in the aura; but one simple question, and all was ended.

I should kill her, Lythande thought. For now I am fighting not for my magic alone, but for my Secret and for my life. For surely with my power gone. Rabben would lose no time in making an end of me, in revenge for the loss of half a hand.

The girl was still motionless, entranced. How easily she could be killed! Then Lythande recalled an old fairy tale, which might he used to save the Secret of the Star.

The light flickered as Time returned to the chamber. Bercy was still clinging and weeping, unaware of the lapse; Lythande had resolved what to do, and the girl felt Lythande’s arms enfolding her, and the magician’s kiss on her welcoming mouth.

“You must love me or I shall die!” Bercy wept.

Lythande said, “You shall be mine.” The soft neutral voice was very gentle. “But even a magician is vulnerable in love, and I must protect myself. A place shall be made ready for us without light or sound save for what I provide with my magic; and you must swear that you will not seek to see or to touch me except by that magical light. Will you swear it by the All-Mother, Bercy? For if you swear this, I shall love you as no woman has ever been loved before.”

Trembling, she whispered, “I swear.” And Lythande’s heart went out in pity, for Rabben had used her ruthlessly; so that she burned alive with her unslaked and bewitched love for the magician, that she was all caught up in her passion for Lythande. Painfully, Lythande thought: If she had only loved me, without the spell; then I could have loved.

Would that I could trust her with my Secret! But she is only Rabben’s tool; her love for me is his doing, and none of her own will… and not real… And so everything which would pass between them now must be only a drama staged for Rabben.

“I shall make all ready for you with my magic.”

Lythande went and confided to Myrtis what was needed; the woman began to laugh, but a single glance at Lythande’s bleak face stopped her cold. She had known Lythande since long before the Blue Star was set between those eyes; and she kept the Secret for love of Lythande. It wrung her heart to see one she loved in the grip of such suffering. So she said, “All will be prepared. Shall I give her a drug in her wine to weaken her will, that you may the more readily throw a glamour upon her?”

Lythande’s voice held a terrible bitterness. “Rabben has done that already for us, when he put a spell upon her to love me.”

“You would have it otherwise?” Myrtis asked, hesitating.

“All the gods of Sanctuary — they laugh at me! All-Mother, help me! But I would have it otherwise; I could love her, if she were nor Rabben’s tool.”

When all was prepared, Lythande entered the darkened room. There was no light but the light of the Blue Star. The girl lay on a bed, stretching up her arms to the magician with exalted abandon.

“Come to me, come to me, my love!”

“Soon,” said Lythande, sitting beside her, stroking her hair with a tenderness even Myrtis would never have guessed. “I will sing to you a love song of my people, far away.”

She writhed in erotic ecstasy. “All you do is good to me, my love, my magician!”

Lythande felt the blankness of utter despair. She was beautiful, and she was in love. She lay in a bed spread for the two of them, and they were separated by the breadth of the world. The magician could not endure it.

Lythande sang, in that rich and beautiful voice, a voice lovelier than any spell:

Half the night is spent; and the crown of moonlight

Fades, and now the crown of the stars is paling;

Yields the sky reluctant to coming morning;

Still I lie lonely.

I will love you as no woman has ever been loved.

Lythande could see tears on Bercy’s cheeks.

Between the girl on the bed, and the motionless form of the magician, as the magician’s robe fell heavily to the floor, a wraith-form grew, the very wraith and fetch, at first, of Lythande, tall and lean, with blazing eyes and a star between its brows and a body white and unscarred; the form of the magician, but this one triumphant in virility, advancing on the motionless woman, waiting. Her mind fluttered away in arousal, was caught, captured, bespelled. Lythande let her see the image for a moment; she could not see the true Lythande behind; then, as her eyes closed in ecstatic awareness of the touch, Lythande smoothed light fingers over her closed eyes.

“See — what I bid you to see!

“Hear — what I bid you hear!

“Feel — only what I bid you feel, Bercy!”

And now she was wholly under the spell of the wraith. Unmoving, stony-eyed, Lythande watched as her lips closed on emptiness and she kissed invisible lips; and moment by moment Lythande knew what touched her, what caressed her. Rapt and ravished by illusion, that brought her again and again to the heights of ecstasy, till she cried out in abandonment. Only to Lythande that cry was bitter; for she cried out not to Lythande but to the man-wraith who possessed her.

At last she lay all but unconscious, satiated; and Lythande watched in agony. When she opened her eyes again, Lythande was looking down at her, sorrowfully.

Bercy stretched up languid arms. “Truly, my beloved, you have loved me as no woman has ever been loved before.”

For the first and last time, Lythande bent over her and pressed her lips in a long, infinitely tender kiss. “Sleep, my darling.” And as she sank into ecstatic, exhausted sleep, Lythande wept.

Long before she woke, Lythande stood, girt for travel, in the little room belonging to Myrtis. “The spell will hold. She will make all haste to carry her tale to Rabben — the tale of Lythande, the incomparable lover! Of Lythande, of untiring virility, who can love a maiden into exhaustion!” The rich voice of Lythande was harsh with bitterness.

“And long before you return to Sanctuary, once freed of the spell, she will have forgotten you in many other lovers,” Myrtis agreed. “It is better and safer that it should be so.”

“True.” But Lythande’s voice broke. “Take care of her, Myrtis. Be kind to her.”

I swear it, Lythande.”

“If only she could have loved me”—the magician broke and sobbed again for a moment; Myrtis looked away, wrung with pain, knowing not what comfort to offer.

“If only she could have loved me as I am, freed of Rabben’s spell! Loved me without pretense! But I feared I could not master the spell Rabben had put on her… nor trust her not to betray me, knowing… ”

Myrtis put her plump arms around Lythande, tenderly.

“Do you regret?”

The question was ambiguous. It might have meant: Do you regret that you did not kill the girl? Or even: Do you regret your oath and the secret you must bear to the last day? Lythande chose to answer the last.

“Regret? How can I regret? One day I shall fight against Chaos with all of my order; even at the side of Rabben, if he lives unmurdered as long as that. And that alone must justify my existence and my Secret. But now I must leave Sanctuary, and who knows when the chances of the world will bring me this way again? Kiss me farewell, my sister.”

Myrtis stood on tiptoe. Her lips met the lips of the magician.

“Until we meet again, Lythande. May She attend and guard you forever. Farewell, my beloved, my sister.”

Then the magician Lythande girded on her sword, and went silently and by unseen ways out of the city of Sanctuary, just as the dawn was breaking. And on her forehead the glow of the Blue Star was dimmed by the rising sun. Never once did she look back.