Lawrence Watt-Evans - The Misenchanted Sword

“If I understand you, I feel obliged to warn you that I don’t think you will be able to kill yourself with the sword. I’m familiar with spells of that type, though not quite that form; they were discovered right about the time the Great War ended. The sword is semi-animate, with a will of its own, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“Then it will not permit you to kill yourself until it has served out its full quota of deaths in your hands; your own determination aside, it’s physically impossible for you to commit suicide with that sword, I’m sure of it. You will have to kill however many men remain to the predetermined allotment, and then the sword will claim a new owner, who will kill you; no other outcome is possible while the sword and spell exist.”

Valder mulled that over; somehow, he was not surprised. He thought that he might have suspected it to be true all along, on some unconscious level, or perhaps had once heard it explained, long ago, by a wizard studying the sword.

At last he rose, saying politely, “Thank you for your help; I have one more favor to ask. Could you direct me to a good diviner or seer?”

Tagger, too, arose. “Certainly; I would recommend either Sella the Witch, across the street and down two blocks to the east, or Lurenna of Tantashar, four blocks west.”

“Lurenna is a wizard, or another witch?”

“A wizard. There are also a few theurgists who deal in prophecy and divination…”

“No, a wizard is fine.” Valder bowed, and departed.

He paused for a moment at the door, noticing for the first time that full night had arrived while he spoke with the red-clad wizard; he was footsore and weary, feeling his age, and considered for a moment simply finding a place to sleep and continuing in the morning.

The streets, however, were torchlit and inviting, the shop-windows mostly aglow, and he decided he would pursue matters now, having delayed so long already. He would find Lurenna of Tantashar, not in hopes that she might remove the sword’s enchantment, but rather that she might be able to locate for him a more powerful wizard who could. Tagger had said that such wizards existed. True, he had little to offer in compensation—but he would deal with that problem when he had to. He would find a way.

Tagger watched the old man with the sword march away, then returned to the shop parlor to find that Varrin had slipped in the back way, unnoticed.

“Who was that?” the older man asked.

“Oh, an old veteran with a magic sword with a curse on it—nothing I wanted to deal with, though. Eighth-order, he said.”

Varrin shook his head. “Those idiots during the war didn’t know what they were doing, throwing around spells like that; it’s amazing we survived, let alone won.”

Tagger, who had not yet been born when the war ended, shrugged. “I wouldn’t know,” he said, reaching for the candy jar.

Valder found Lurenna’s shop only with difficulty; reading signs by the flaring, uneven torchlight was more than his weak eyes could handle readily, and hers was small and discreet, a simple panel reading, “Lurenna of Tantashar: Your Questions Answered.”

Fortunately, the window was still lit, behind heavy wine-red draperies. The blue-painted door, however, was securely locked; he knocked loudly.

It was a long moment before the latch slid back and the door swung in. A thin woman in a lavender gown—a color Valder had never before seen used for an entire garment—peered out at him.

“I have closed for the night,” she said.

“My apologies for disturbing you, then, but I have come a dozen leagues today to find answers to my questions.”

“Then you must be Valder the Innkeeper, here to ask about Wirikidor.” She seemed to hesitate for a moment, then said, “Come in—but I warn you, I can’t help you.”

“I have not yet said what I want.”

“I know—but I know that, whatever it might be, although I will answer your questions the answers will not be the ones you seek.”

“How can you know that?” Valder said before he could stop himself; no wizard, he still knew exactly what her reply would be.

“It’s my business to know things; why else would you come to me? I can answer my own questions as well as anyone else’s, and I like to know who my customers will be, and whether I will please them—though I had neglected to ask when you would come and had not expected you until morning. Now, come in and be seated.”

Valder followed her into a small room hung with wine velvet, and sat down in a velvet chair by a small table. Lurenna seated herself opposite him and reached for a small velvet pouch.

“My price is fixed; I will answer three questions for a gold piece and guarantee the answers to be correct and complete. For a silver piece I can answer one question with no guarantees save that what I then tell you will be the truth.”

Valder hesitated; that was more than he had expected to pay. Still, he needed answers. He fished out one of his carefully-hoarded gold pieces and tossed it on the table.

“Good; now, what are your questions?”

“Are there any limitations? Must answers be yes or no?”

“No, of course not—I would not dare charge gold for that! However, be careful just what you do or don’t ask; I will probably answer only what you say, not what you intended to say.”

That seemed fair enough. He thought for a long moment, composing his question.

“Who,” he said at last, “of all those alive today, is capable of removing the enchantment from the sword Wirikidor, which I carry?”

“And your second question?”

“Will depend upon the answer to my first.”

The wizard looked displeased. “That makes it more difficult for me, but I’ll get your answer. Wait here.” She rose, and vanished behind one of the velvet draperies.

Valder waited, growing ever more bored and ever more aware of the pain in his overworked feet and his general weariness; finally, after what seemed like days, Lurenna emerged.

“I have a list of some eighty or ninety names here,” she announced. “Do you want them all?”

“I might,” Valder said, pleased.

“Have you decided upon your second question?” Lurenna asked.

“No; I hadn’t expected so long a list.”

“If I might make a suggestion, what would be the consequences of removing the enchantment?”

“I had been thinking rather of where I might find the one of those ninety wizards most willing to perform the removal, but I have two questions left; very well then, what would be the consequences?”

“I have already asked that, in anticipation and to satisfy my own curiosity; you would die, and of the wizards listed, only one, a hermit living on the Plains of Ice beyond the old Northern Empire, stands any chance of survival. The number of innocents in the area who would also die could reach as high as thirty-three.”

Valder sat, stunned.

“I told you that you would not be pleased by my answers; when the first seemed so promising I could not resist asking my own question.” The wizard seemed almost to be gloating.

“This hermit in the far north—what of him?”

“Is that your third question?”

“No! No, it isn’t. Wait a moment.”

“The hermit knows you of old and dislikes you, and would refuse to aid you in anything whatsoever; furthermore, although he still lives, he is very old and weak, and could probably not remove the spell without suffering grievous harm—though I could not be sure of the extent due to his own magical aura interfering with my spells. I give you this answer free of charge, and you have one question left.”

Valder sat for a moment, and finally asked what he realized should have been his first question. He had more gold, if necessary, and could ask further questions.