Lawrence Watt-Evans - The Misenchanted Sword

“That doesn’t explain why I never heard more about these spells, though.”

“They were secret, of course—the Wizards’ Guild saw to that. Even during the war, when we let the army know so many secrets, we kept that one for ourselves.”

“But why?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Not to me.”

“The spells are very difficult, the ingredients very expensive, and they consume an inordinate amount of magical energy. If everyone knew that such spells existed, everyone would want them; who wouldn’t want to be young forever? However, that’s not practical. First off, if no one were to die of old age, the world would become very crowded very quickly. And besides, we simply couldn’t enchant everyone; there isn’t enough to go around of some of the ingredients, and the spells would use up so much magical energy that it might affect the whole balance of reality. But do you think most people would believe that? Most people distrust wizards enough as it is. In the face of something like eternal youth being denied them, they’d surely accuse us of keeping it for ourselves out of evil motives.” She paused, then added, “Besides, there are plenty of people around I’d just as soon not see still alive a century hence.”

Valder had to agree with that sentiment, but asked, “What about some of the really important people, though? Why haven’t you restored Azrad’s youth, if it’s possible? He’s a great man, and as overlord of the world’s richest city he could certainly afford to pay for the ingredients, however rare they are.”

“Oh, certainly, we could restore his youth, and he could afford to pay for it—but we don’t want to. He’s been a good enough overlord, and a good admiral before that, but if he were to live forever, he might not stay one. What sympathy would he have for ordinary people once he, himself, were free of the fear of death? Besides, he would then have an unfair advantage in his competition with his fellow triumvirs, don’t you think? He would have all eternity to plot and plan and carry out his schemes; what mortal ruler could compete? In a century or two he’d rule all the world—including the wizards, perhaps, and we don’t want that. Nor do we care to treat all rulers equally with our youth spells; we’d be preserving the bad along with the good, and isolating them from their people. This is without even mentioning that we could scarcely keep the spells secret if we used them on Azrad or any other public figure. If old Azrad were to appear in the next parade looking like a man of thirty again, that would make it rather obvious that youth spells exist, wouldn’t it? Assuming, that is, that everyone actually believed him to be Azrad, and not a brash young imposter.”

Valder had to admit the truth of these arguments.

“Well, then, you see that there is a way around your curse; all you need is a perpetual youth spell.”

“And just how am I to get one? Why would these immortal wizards you speak of allow me, a mere innkeeper, what they would not permit Azrad? And just who are these people, anyway? Plenty of wizards grow old and die; I’ve seen it happen. Who decides who will be made young?”

“Oh, that’s simple enough; anyone who can handle the spells is permitted to use them. After all, how could we stop them? The difficulty is that the spells involved are all of a very high order; the one that I used was an eleventh-order spell. From what you’ve said of your difficulties with Wirikidor, I’m sure you know that very few wizards ever become capable of handling such spells in the course of a normal lifetime. Among those who do, the spells are not secret; in fact, any member of the Wizards’ Guild who asks is given whichever recipe he might choose. In most cases, since failure usually results in a messy death, wizards wait until they are either capable of handling the magic involved, or are old enough to be desperate.”

“You mean all the wizards know about these youth spells?”

“Most of them, anyway.”

“How can you keep secret what so many know?”

“Oh, well, that’s an advantage of being wizards; the Guild has ways of keeping secrets that don’t bear explaining.”

“Why don’t the wizards object to not being given immortality, then?”

“But they all have the opportunity to earn it, you see, if they’re good enough at their craft. Most aren’t—but that possibility is always there. If we were to cast the spell on every poor fool who manages to survive an apprenticeship, the world would fill up with wizards until there was no room for anyone else.”

“And how am I to earn it? Are you suggesting I become a wizard’s apprentice at the age of sixty-six, and hope that by some miracle I live long enough to learn an eleventh-order spell?”

“It would hardly take a miracle, with Wirikidor involved, but no, that’s not at all what I propose. I intend to enchant you myself.”

“But you just finished explaining why the spell wasn’t given out!”

“It’s not given out to just anyone, Valder, but you’re a special case. You saved my life last night, and after two hundred and eighty-eight years, I consider my life rather precious. Besides, for forty years you’ve lived quietly, despite owning a sword that could have put you on a throne in the Small Kingdoms or otherwise cut a swathe in the world’s affairs; I don’t think the Guild need worry too much that you’ll upset anything or take unfair advantage of extended youth. In fact, you already have immortality, and that’s the hard part; all I’ll be doing is restoring your youth, not extending your lifespan. I’ll be saving eighteen other lives, as well; you’ll have no need to draw Wirikidor again, no reason to want to be murdered. More than eighteen, since after your death the sword would take a new owner, who would have to kill his own quota before he could die. That’s a very nasty sword you have there, and I’m sure that taking it out of circulation indefinitely is a good enough reason to grant you your youth. I’m certain my Guild colleagues will agree.”

“Just because I haven’t done anything stupid? A life is a life, that’s all, and I never saw any reason to treat mine differently because of Wirikidor.”

“Ah, but that’s what makes you special! Most people would have shaped their lives around the sword.”

“You can’t just remove the spell somehow?” Valder was not sure whether he wanted to be young again; the idea was strange, unfamiliar, and he needed time before he could accept it fully.

“I could, actually, but we would both die as a result, and I am not in the least interested in dying.”

Valder was not interested in dying, either. Here, finally, was his way out, if he could only accept it. He would be young again—he would live forever, if he chose. He could not help but think that there was some trick to it, some hidden catch; it had been wizardry that had complicated his situation in the first place, when the hermit had wanted to get rid of him. Now another wizard was volunteering to interfere with his life, and he was sure there would be drawbacks—but he could not think of any. After several minutes of thought he reached a decision. He would not be deterred by his previous experience. He would accept this incredible gift being offered him. Perhaps with new youth his eyesight would return to what it had once been; he would like that.

“All right,” he said, pushing his chair back from the breakfast table, “what do we do now?”

Iridith smiled. “Come with me.”

The house by the seaside was pleasant enough, with its covered porches and wooden walkways down to the beach, but it was not at all what Valder had expected of a centuries-old wizard capable of eleventh-order magic. He had been expecting a glittering palace, not a ramshackle old house with walls of rough wood and fieldstone and a roof of thatch.