Lawrence Watt-Evans - The Misenchanted Sword

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Valder admitted.

“You had best claim to be a relative of some sort—you’ll have a strong family resemblance, after all.”

“Will anyone believe that?”

“Certainly! Why shouldn’t they?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Of course, I don’t think I really have any relatives still alive; I haven’t heard from any in thirty or forty years, and I’ve told people that.”

“All the better; none will turn up to dispute your story. Surely you could be an illegitimate son, or long-lost nephew, or something!”

“I suppose I could; I’ll want to warn Tandellin, though. He had probably thought that he would inherit the place; he may not be overjoyed to have a new heir turn up.”

“He’ll have to live with it. Nothing’s perfect; giving you eternal youth can’t solve all your problems for you.”

Valder smiled. “It’s a good start, though.”

The eighth day of the month of Longdays, a sixnight after Valder made a visit to the inn to reassure his friends that all was well, was rainy and grey, but the wizard and innkeeper paid no attention to such trivia; Agravan had sent a message that he had at last acquired the final ingredient. A young streetwalker had run afoul of a gang of drunken soldiers and died in consequence; her body had been sufficiently abused that her brother saw no reason to object to further mutilation if the price was right. The circumstances were depressingly sordid, but the precious hand was finally in their possession.

Valder was pleased to hear that the soldiers responsible were to be hanged; the Lord Executioner would have a busy day, for once.

The hand was safely delivered that evening, and Iridith then locked herself in her workshop, telling Valder to eat well and rest; the spell would require twenty-four hours without food or sleep, and would make great demands upon both mind and body.

At midday on the ninth, while rain splashed from the eaves, Iridith called for Valder to join her in the workshop, and the spell began.

Most of it was meaningless to him; following the wizard’s directions he sat, stood, knelt, swallowed things, handled things, closed his eyes, opened his eyes, spoke meaningless phrases, and in general performed ritual after ritual without any idea of the underlying pattern. Around sunset he began to feel strange, and the remainder of the enchantment passed in a dreamlike, unreal state, so that he could never recall much about it afterwards. All he knew, from about midnight on, was that he was growing ever more tired.

When he came to himself again he was lying on his couch, feeling utterly exhausted. He looked out the nearest window and saw only grey skies that told him nothing save that it was day, not night—yet something seemed wrong. His vision seemed unnaturally clear.

He got to his feet, slowly, feeling very odd indeed. His every muscle was weak with fatigue, yet he felt none of his familiar aches and twinges; it was as if he had become another person entirely.

That thought struck him with considerable force; if he were another person, then was he still Wirikidor’s owner? He reached for his belt and found no sword. He looked down.

His hands were young and strong, fully fleshed, no longer the bony hands of an old man, and he seemed to see every detail with impossible clarity—yet the hands seemed completely familiar, and he found the little pouch at his belt that, he now remembered, magically contained Wirikidor despite its size. He opened the drawstring, reached in, and felt the familiar hilt.

He was obviously still Valder—but he was also obviously a young man. The spell had worked.

He found a mirror and spent several long, incredulous minutes admiring himself, and being pleased not just by what he saw but by how well he saw it. He appeared twenty-five or so—scarcely older than when Wirikidor was first enchanted.

Tandellin would never have recognized him; he congratulated himself on having taken Iridith’s advice and informed his employees on his recent visit that he was retiring and leaving the business to his nephew, Valder the Younger. Tandellin had not been happy about it, and had in fact demanded to know why he had never heard of this nephew before, but he had conceded Valder’s right to do as he pleased with his property.

At last he managed to tear himself away from the mirror. He was, he realized, ravenously hungry—which was scarcely surprising, now that he had a young man’s appetite and had not eaten in at least a day. He strode into the kitchen, revelling in his firm, effortless stride.

Iridith was sitting at the table, devouring a loaf of bread and a thick slab of cheese.

“Catching up?” he asked, aware that she, too, had been unable to eat during the spell.

“Oh, I already did that, really; this is just breakfast.”

“Is it morning?” Valder was surprised; he knew the spell had been complete around midday on the tenth, and had assumed that it was still that same afternoon, not the morning of the eleventh.

“Yes, it’s morning—and of the sixteenth of Longdays. Eat; you must need it.” She shoved the bread and cheese across the table toward him.

He accepted them and quickly began wolfing them down, while the wizard watched in amusement.

When he had taken the edge off his appetite he slowed down in his eating and looked at his hostess. She looked back, then rose and crossed to the cupboard to fetch further provender.

He watched the movement of her body, remembering all the conversations he had had with her over the past month and more.

She returned with another loaf, a pitcher of beer, and assorted other items, remarking, “That spell does take quite a bit out of one, but it’s worth it, wouldn’t you say?”

Valder nodded, looking at her.

“Yes,” he agreed, “I would definitely say so.”

They both ate in silence after that; when they had eaten their fill Iridith led the way out to the porch, where they could watch the morning sun struggle to force an opening in the clouds.

“My debt is paid,” Iridith said. “And your problems with the sword are solved.”

Valder nodded agreement. “So they are,” he said. He watched a beam of sunlight stab through to the foam at the water’s edge, then added, “I have another problem, though—one that I never solved. I never found myself a wife, and now I’m young enough again to want one—but what kind of a life would it be, having a wife who would grow old and die while I stayed young?”

“It’s not pleasant,” the wizard agreed.

“If I could find a wife who wouldn’t grow old, of course, that would be ideal.”

“Of course,” she said. “Strictly for practical reasons.”

“Naturally, I would let her lead her own life if she chose; I’ve never believed in the theory that a wife should be a chattel. A companion, though, a comrade through the years, would be welcome.”

“I’m sure.”

He was silent for a moment.

“Do you think you might want to be an innkeeper’s wife?” he asked at last.

She smiled. “Oh,” she said lightly, “I think I could stand it for a century or two.”

Valder stared at the white-haired little man as he came through the door of the inn. “I know him,” he muttered to himself, “I’m sure I do.” He watched as the old man found his way to a table and carefully seated himself.

Young Thetta headed toward the new arrival, but Valder waved her off; something about this person fascinated him. He crossed the room slowly to give himself time to remember, and by the time he reached the table he thought he knew who the man was.

It was very hard to believe, though, after so long.