Lawrence Watt-Evans - The Misenchanted Sword

“No; he never told me. I don’t believe I told him mine, either, for that matter.”

“And what was your name at the time? Surely you weren’t an innkeeper then.”

“No, I was Valder of Kardoret, Scout first class.”

“Go on.” Tagger shifted in his chair.

“I saw part of his work when he was enchanting the sword, but I didn’t pay close attention, and he never explained any of it to me or told me anything about it. Even if he had, it’s been more than forty years now, and I wouldn’t remember much. When I got back to Ethshar the army wizards tried to analyze it, and they said that it included the Spell of True Ownership and some sort of animation; that’s all I remember. Oh, yes—I think they said it was eighth-order magic.”

Tagger started. “Eighth-order?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, dear.”

Valder did not like the sound of that. He waited for the wizard to continue.

“I can’t do anything for you, I’m afraid. My father might be willing to try, though, if you can pay enough; he’d stand a good chance of succeeding, I think, and would almost certainly survive the attempt, but I’ll admit frankly that you might not.”

“Why?”

“Because your life-force is linked to the sword by the Spell of True Ownership; tied to it, as it were, by an invisible knot. The wizard who made the connection in the first place, or any really extremely powerful and skilled wizard, might be able to untie that knot—but you don’t know who the original wizard was, and I don’t know of any wizards skilled enough to handle an eighth-order linkage properly, which is what it would be if the True Ownership were applied as part of the eighth-order spell rather than as a separate enchantment. If my father were to make the attempt, he wouldn’t be untying so much as cutting the knot, and that would mean possibly cutting away part of your life. To carry the analogy a step further, the severed ends are likely to lash about, and one might strike him and harm or kill him. Naturally, that means a high price is called for.”

Valder was already pretty certain that he did not want to pursue this route, but asked, “How high?”

“I can’t speak for him, really; at least ten pounds of gold, though, I’m sure.”

That settled the matter, since Valder did not have that much.

“Would you by chance know of anyone who might attempt it for less?”

Tagger shook his head. “No, I’m sorry, but I really don’t. High-level magic is expensive. Besides, you know, the really powerful wizards don’t need to make money by selling their talents; they provide for themselves by other means. I don’t suppose I should admit it, since it’s hardly good business, but since I’ve already told you we probably can’t help you I might as well go on and tell you that we’re all second-raters here, all of us shopkeepers in the Wizards’ Quarter. If I could untangle an eighth-order spell I could probably conjure up a castle in the air and live in luxury for the rest of my life, instead of spending my days removing impotence curses or curing baldness and scrofula and so forth.”

That made a great deal of sense, but also presented another possibility. “But such powerful wizards do exist?”

“Oh, yes, there’s no doubt about that; the ones who can still be bothered with mundane affairs run the Wizards’ Guild, so I’ve met a few—but never by their true names, and probably not even wearing their true faces.”

“Where could I find such a wizard?”

Tagger shrugged eloquently. “I haven’t any idea at all. Certainly not running a shop in Ethshar of the Spices, unless you find one visiting to remind himself what he need no longer tolerate. And before you get any high hopes built up, let me remind you that a truly great wizard would have no particular reason to help you by removing the enchantment from your sword.”

“He’d have no particular reason not to help me, though.”

“Laziness comes to mind—and even for a really powerful wizard, undoing an eighth-order spell is likely to involve considerable difficulty and even some risk.”

“I see,” Valder said. He started to rise.

“Before you go,” Tagger said, “would you mind explaining to me just what this curse is you’re so eager to avoid? Perhaps we can find a way around it.”

Valder settled back again. “What do you mean?”

“Well, for example, we had a client once who had been cursed with what seemed like a simple enough spell; he had been given a really unpleasant odor, so that nobody could stand to go near him for very long. It’s a standard little curse, useful for revenge or blackmail—but in this case, the wizard had been feeling particularly vengeful, and had booby-trapped the spell, linking it to some very complicated wizardry we couldn’t be bothered untangling for any price the victim could pay, so that we couldn’t use the usual counter-charm. Instead, we put another curse on the poor fellow, one that stopped up the sense of smell on anyone near him—and just to be sure, we gave his wife a love potion strong enough that she wouldn’t mind the stink even if it reached her. There are still some effects—for example, dogs and other animals can’t go anywhere within a hundred feet of him, so he has to travel entirely on foot—but at least he’s not totally isolated.”

Valder considered, looking at the little wizard’s face; the man seemed quite sincere, and there was always some way out if only it could be found.

“All right,” he said. “The curse is that I can only die when slain by the sword, Wirikidor; nothing else, not even old age, is supposed to be able to kill me. That’s what Darrend of Calimor and the rest of General Karannin’s wizards said, at any rate. However, I still age, can still be wounded, and I’m still going blind.”

“We can cure the blindness, I think,” Tagger said.

“That’s not the real point, though. I’m still going to age; I’m going to get older and older, weaker and weaker, and I won’t die. Ever. I don’t think I can face that.”

“You can kill yourself with the sword, though.”

“Not if I get too weak to lift it.”

Tagger looked thoughtful. “That’s a good point. I’m not sure how that would work, not knowing the exact spell.”

“I’m not sure either—and it’s my life that’s in question here.”

“Have you tested your supposed immortality?”

“No; how can I test it? I can still be harmed, after all.”

“You might take poison and see what it does.”

“And perhaps spend the rest of my days with my belly burnt away? That’s just the sort of thing I want to avoid.”

“Oh, come now, there are plenty of deadly poisons with no long-term side-effects. Still, I see your point. You haven’t tested it, in short.”

“No.”

“And you want some way out of your current situation, where you believe you will age normally, but never die of it.”

“Exactly.”

“You would consider suicide acceptable?”

“I am not enthusiastic about it, but it seems preferable to the alternative.”

Tagger stared at him thoughtfully. “Could you really find it in yourself to do it? Killing oneself with a sword is not easy.”

Valder shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not sure,” he admitted.

“You could hire someone to kill you, I suppose.”

“No, not really; nobody else can use the sword while the spell holds, and the spell still has several deaths to go.”

“Several deaths? How do you mean that?”

“Oh, I didn’t explain the whole enchantment; it’s complicated. Between my acquisition of the sword in its enchanted form and my death, every time I draw it it must kill a man, up to about a hundred times, and then it will turn on me, and kill me. I had figured that I could live forever by simply not drawing it any more—but now I think that looks worse than death, as I’ve told you.”