Magic in Ithkar (30 page)

Until he came to a stop, and all the stench and squalor around him seemed distant and unreal, for he saw only those who stood in the moonlight before him.

Being what he was, he noticed the horse first. It stood very still, white flanks mottled gray by leaf-shadow in moonlight, shimmering, almost spiritous, but so big, a destrier without peer, massive neck highly arched and the small ears almost hidden in mane, noble nostrils, dark eyes, ripple of muscles in great shoulder—and standing with one hand resting lightly on the great shining curve of barrel, the master—

Kam turned his eyes slightly to see who it was who owned such a steed. Another mincing noble, he judged it would be. But no—this man looked to be neither perfumed noble nor worldly priest nor commoner nor nomad nor soldier nor merchant nor any other sort of man that Kam could put a name to, nor even one of those nameless overseas barbarians. He was—what was he, in the moonlight? He met Kam’s stare quite equably.

“Goodman horseleech,” he said, “thank you for coming.”

Young, he was very young, and handsome—and yet the curls of his fair young head shone pure white. And something in his voice was not young at all—there were ages of quiet in that level voice. A glint of sheen about him—crown, or helm, or sparkle of armband, or brooch at the cloaked shoulder? Kam was never to remember clearly, for he was caught in a trance of strangeness and shifting moonlight. And that face dimly lit and the eyes deep pools of shadow—he was perhaps not of unusual height, perhaps of a height with Kam if Kam had straightened fully, but he seemed tall, even when he bent to run his hand down his horse’s sleek side.

“It is the hock, here,” he said.

Kam noted the swelling, moved closer numbly to explore it with large, deft, and gentle fingers, noting in the same trancelike fashion that the steed bore not a thread of harness. “Spavin,” Kam said, his voice coming out curiously rusty.

“I know. That last battle, too much, the terrible weight—he had been lame for a long time, and has worn the hoof all uneven with it. What can you do for him, goodman Kam?’”

He hated to answer truly. He swallowed first. “Very little,” he said finally. “If I could have treated it sooner, just after it happened—”

“I know. I lay abed, a spear-tip buried in my thigh, and by the time I— Well . ...” The stranger paused, glancing, if Kam could judge, obliquely upward, toward where the moon hovered, gathering thoughts. “The talk of Ithkar Fair is that you are the best healer of horses south of the mountains,” he went on at last. “Surely there is something you can do.”

There were remedies. Kam had tried them at various times, reluctantly. “Some men burn the spavin with white-hot iron to draw the devil out,” he said, his voice as quiet and even as that of the one he faced. “Others pierce it with tapestry needles or slender knives.”

“And you say?”

Kam tried not to scowl. “I say let ill enough alone. Pain and disfigurement—”

“And small enough result. Yes.” The stranger turned slightly, his hand still on the great steed’s back. “Have you no magic, goodman Kam?”

A chill that was not the night breeze touched Kam—fear, but not of the stranger. It was the well-inbred fear of one well mannered who has always obeyed the law. “You know the priests guard magic quite jealously,” he said too hastily, too anxious to tell the other that which should not need saying.

“Magic is forbidden in Ithkar except when judged harmless or a minor part of a man’s stock in trade.”

“Well, then say that I forced you to do my will.” There was not the slightest hint of threat in the youth’s voice—only eagerness. “With this,” he added, and from a scabbard under his cloak he drew forth a long, slender sword that shone like new silver in the moonlight.

A sword!

Kam gaped, knowing now quite certainly what he had managed not to know before: that this man, this horse, were not of earthly sort. The fair-wards let no weapons into Ithkar Fair, whether lance or dirk, whether on noble, cleric, or commoner. None. Years had taught him that the rule was as dependable as the sunrise. And here stood one with a shining sword in hand—he could not, then, be one who had entered this place by any earthly gate.

“Who are you?” Kam whispered.

The other seemed suddenly abashed and sheathed his sword. “Does it matter?” he asked.

“To be sure, it does!” Kam exclaimed, though he could not have told why. “Who—
what
are you?”

“The prince out of the past.”

Names of dead heroes, champions of the Three Lordly Ones in the noble times long past, filled Kam’s mind in disorder, like half-remembered music. “Who—which one?”

“All.”

Kam stared, beyond his depth, uncertain whether to kneel, pledge fealty, kiss the moonlike glint of a ring. But he was a plain man, he
could
do none of those things. Only one thing could he do for this prince, and silently he turned to the horse to attempt it.

“Even the spirits are drawn to Ithkar Fair,” the champion said, all in a soft rush, as if he had at last found someone he could talk to. “This fair draws all to it, best and worst. . . . We walked here side by side all the long way, the steed and I. He is limping worse than ever now. I wish I could have carried him, for he carried me many a sore time.”

Kam had placed one hand on the horse’s flank and the other on the hot and tender hock, and he stood puzzled and distraught. “Lord,” he said, “I cannot feel him.”

The youth smiled quizzically. “He’s solid enough.”

“Yes, but I mean—I cannot feel his being, his . . .” Kam did not know the word for “essence,” but he knew horses, their shying, their slobber, their passions—for grass and home and each other, their oblique thoughts, their fears—his body bore the half-circle moonlike marks of their hooves. And he knew that what stood so tamely under his hand was not horse as he understood it.

“What is he?” Kam asked.

“All.” Now it was the prince who fumbled with words. “The . . . greatness, the majesty of . . . all such horses, as I am . . . of men ”

Kam closed his eyes, tried to remember the tales he had heard as a boy, tales of a golden time of high court and high courage, long-ago when the Three ruled. . . . None of them came clear, but a sort of vision drifted to mind of the steed that bore the champion joyously across the countryside, that lent its weight to the blow of his lance, that took him curvetting out of the hands of the enemy—under his touch the great kingly destrier stirred, lifted his lovely head, and softly whinnied.

“Yes!” It was the prince, an excited whisper.

Kam placed both hands on the hock, embracing the injured part with their warmth, and let the -magic come. “Lordly Ones,” he whispered, “Lordly Ones on your seven pillars of cloud white as pearl, white as moonlight, white as white gold, help me . . . .”

It shot through him with javelin force. He heard and felt that the charger reared up with a great neigh, and he felt the prince catch him as he fell backward, strong arms and warm, but he could see nothing, and in a moment he knew nothing more.

He awoke some hours later to bright sunlight and the unwelcome sight of a fair-ward standing over him, scowling under the shadow of his brass helmet.

“Up, horseleech, and come with me,” the fair-ward ordered.

Kam did not get up. He felt far too weak. Instead, he looked around him. He lay on a pile of straw in an unfamiliar place—where were his blankets? A half-grown urchin stood nearby, and a nice-looking shaggy gray pony with thick mane on a well-arched neck. Dapple gray—or was the gray mostly dirt?

“Caught red-handed,” the fair-ward grumbled, prodding him with his bronze-shod quarterstaff.

Kam struggled to a sitting position. “What is the charge?” he asked.

“Magic! When I came by here yesterday that pony was spavined so bad ye could see it with no eyes. Today it’s sound. Get up.”

The news rather than the order brought Kam scrambling to his feet. The urchin faced him at the pony’s side, unsmiling. A curly-headed, freckle-faced lad, his hair sun-bleached nearly as white as tow, he stood no higher than Kam’s chest. But his eyes, startlingly dark, looked merry and wise and very old. Struck in his belt he wore a long stick.

“Come along,” the fair-ward said, and Kam went without a word.

The priest who heard the case was young, golden-robed, newly shaven of head, and newly cynical since having become privy to the inner workings of the temple. He regarded Kam impatiently.

“Have you any defense?”

Penalties for the use of magic were severe. Kam could be declared outlaw, lose his home and possessions and his rights as a freeman. Most practitioners resolved this matter with a simple bribe, for the priests were mercenary. Kam had no bribe and no defense except the truth.

“The champion ...” No, it would not be truth to say that the prince had made him do it. The healing had been Kam’s gift of the heart. “The Lordly Ones empowered me to help the horse.”

“Pony,” the fair-ward corrected.

The priest sighed hugely. Ai, the credulousness of these peasants! Would they never learn anything other than their literal-minded, superstitious beliefs? Still, the man was evidently not a shyster or a sneaking wizard. Even the fair-ward admitted that Kam had a reputation for honesty.

“If I let off everyone who spoke of the Three,” the priest said rather sharply, “the fair would be topheavy with trickery, shoddy wares sold under a veil of glamour.”

Kam glanced up from where he had been studying his large toes. “Well, if it is trickery to heal a suffering beast,” he said just as sharply, “then I stand guilty.”

“There is a need for codification of these matters of healing,” the priest grumbled, more to himself than to Kam. The problem was irksome, and he had not had his morning pastry. He decided to delay judgment.

“We’ll see if you have anything more to say after a night down below,” he told Kam, and waved a slender hand in dismissal.

“Down below” turned out to be a cell with chains and shackles and nothing to eat. Kam sat there disconsolately through the day and into the night. But when moonlight began to make its way through the single high window, Kam felt misery leave him, to be replaced by a quite unreasonable hope. He watched as, the moon traveling toward its setting, pale shafts of light inched nearer and nearer to him. At last, just as he had known they must, they touched the shackles on his wrists—

And the chains fell apart with a faint silvery clink, and invisible hands helped Kam to his feet. Utterly astonished in spite of his hope—for it is one thing to expect the impossible, and another thing to see it happen—Kam let himself be led through a moonstruck and unlocked door and a maze of temple catacombs to a seldom used entry that opened dustily before him. Moonlight fell on cobbles outside, and the prince out of the past and the steed of all steeds awaited him as before.

“Why do you not ride?” Kam asked anxiously. “Is the horse not well?”

“Well and whole. You ride. You must be weak. Have they beaten you?”

“No.” Kam was touched but not surprised by the concern in the champion’s voice. “Thank you, my lord, but I need not ride. I can’t, anyway. I—I have never sat a horse.”

“Never, and you all your life a horseleech?” The marvel of that smile in the moonlight. “Well, I am blithe indeed that you are not outlawed or hurt. Let us walk together, if you will not ride.”

They set off companionably toward the outer sector of the fair enclave, where drunkards brawled and peacocks shrieked and jugglers and horses were lodged, horses for sale, trained performing horses, pack horses and saddle horses, Kam’s love and livelihood. As they walked the most wondrous horse he had ever seen walked freely beside him, its hooves chiming against the cobbles, with not a trace of a limp.

But the prince limped. Of course, the wound in the thigh. “Are there no leeches for you at Ithkar Fair?” Kam asked.

“Not such a healer as you, goodman.” The prince smiled again. “Never mind. The steed will carry me.”

He made ready to ride when they reached Kam’s small campsite. He needed the height of a wagon-bed to help him vault to the horse’s back. Before he climbed up, Kam took courage to ask him something ignoble.

“Lord—will there be a fair-ward awaiting me with the dawn?”

The prince genuinely laughed, a ringing, lovely sound. “Nay, I think not,” he declared when he was done. “The priest has had a difficult night, and some of his notions have been shaken. He is not a bad sort, you know, really.”

“Or he would not have given me a second thought.”

“Yes. I think you will find he will be glad enough to let you be.”

Once again it was the quietest hour of night. The moon was nearly down. The youth sprang to his steed.

“Farewell, goodman Kam,” he said, and with a touch he started to turn the marvelous mount away. Then he turned back and stretched out a silver-ringed hand. “I have no payment to offer you, and I have not even told you—many thanks.”

Those eyes, deep pools of shadow . . . Half in fear and half in longing, Kam ardently wished that he could see those eyes more clearly.

“You have made me rich,” he replied. “My lord ...”

“What is it?”

“Who—what lad are you by day? In the light of the sun?”

“Helpless yet, but all hope, unwounded. The prince that will be.”

“Ah.” It was a sigh of fulfillment. “Call on me, champion,” Kam said.

“I will. Kam . . . farewell.”

They touched hands, and then he was gone, the sound of his charger’s hooves ringing away rapidly in the night. He would make good speed before sunrise.

When even the sound had left him, Kam turned and looked skyward. At the horizon the jewel of white fire that was the moon dipped and sank. Kam felt oddly alone, he who always came alone to Ithkar Fair.

“Prince that will be,” he murmured. “And may that day come soon.”

“I strongly suggest, young woman, that you consider my proposition carefully. My friendship with your late father will not protect you from my wrath if you do not cooperate.” Garak glared angrily at Eirthe, and she glared right back at him. After a moment he abandoned his attempt to stare her down, as she had known he would, and left, swirling his black wizard’s cape around him as he stalked off through the fair.