Mercedes Lackey - Lamma's Night (anthology)

At first it had been by choice, for I took joy in the sights and sounds of new places—but that was no longer the case. I was long wearied with traveling, with the hardships and mundane dangers of the road, with being the plaything of the weather, the pawn of the seasons. But I, having been hurt too many times by my fellow man—fellows in my art, let me say—had grown shy of their company, and would settle only in some remote place, far from other practitioners of my art, in some rustic habitat where I might meditate and study at leisure, and use my skills to the mutual benefit of my pocket and the well-being of ordinary folk.

But we of wizardly kind are often of that frame of mind; and it seemed that no matter where my feet carried me, there were others settled there before me.

Until, one autumn day, my wanderings brought me here—

It was a goodly village I saw, nestled in a quiet little valley. The gold of freshly-thatched roofs blended with the brighter gold and red of the autumn leaves; there was a mill clacking and plashing the water of the stream (always a good sign of prosperity) and from the row of carts next to it, the harvest had been an ample one. Even more cheering, I could see from my vantage point where my road crested the hill that the mill wheel was being used to power a cider press at the side of the building. Three or four village folk were tending it, and an errant breeze brought the scent of apples to me even as I determined to descend into their valley.

The inn, though small, was cheerful with whitewashed wall, red shutters, and smoke-blackened beams. I took my seat within it at a trestle table and nodded in a friendly fashion to two or three broad-shouldered lads (farmers waiting for their grain to be ground, I judged). I had waited no more than a breath or two before the portly, balding, redcheeked innkeeper appeared to ask my desires.

I told him; he served me my bread, cheese, sausage and cider—then stood behind me as if he wished something of me.

I let him wait for a little as I eased my parched and dry throat with his most excellent drink, then looked up at him with a sidewise glance out of my eye—I have found that common folk do not like to be looked at directly by a practitioner of arcane skill.

"Your fare is quite satisfactory, good innkeeper," I said, giving him an opening to speak.

"'Tis all of our own, milady," he made answer. "Well, and it may be humble by some folk's lights, but 'tis proud we are of it. Milady—might I be askin' ye—be ye a magiker?"

I nodded at my staff, that leaned against the wall beside my table. Carved with silver-inlaid runes, and surmounted by a globe of crystal clasped in an eagle's claw of silver, it told all the world what my calling was. "As you can see, goodman. I am of wizard-teaching."

"Then, milady, would it be puttin' ye out of yer way to be speakin' to our headman?"

I was a bit surprised by the question, but took pains not to show it. "I have nowhere in particular to go, good sir; I am a free wanderer, with my time all my own."

He bobbed his head at me. "Then, if ye'd be so kind, I be goin' to fetch him."

And to my astonishment, he trotted across the rutted dirt street to the chandler's shop.

He returned quickly enough, and by his side walked a thin, sallow-faced fellow clad in brown homespun, who might well have looked disagreeable but for the lines of good humor about his eyes and mouth.

He came straight to my table and wasted no time in coming to the point.

"Jesse tells me you are a magician—and a wanderer," he said. "Forgive my impudence, but—milady, we have strong need of one such as you."

Again, I was astonished, for this seemed the perfect place for wizard or witch to settle, and in truth I had been somewhat expecting to be greeted by another such as I with a subtle hint that I should let my feet carry me further.

"How so?" I asked, still not letting my astonishment show. "I would have thought that so charming a place as this would have a resident mage."

"We—did have, milady," the man said, looking anxious. "He—died. We don't know why."

By the Powers of Light, that had an ominous ring to it!

"Was he old?" I asked cautiously. "How did this happen?"

"Nay, lady, he was young, young as you, I would reckon. He just—died. Between sunset and sunrise. The dairymaid found him, sitting up at the table, when she brought the morning milk, with not a mark on him."

My mind worked furiously; such a death could have any number of causes, some arcane, some as simple as an unguessed heart ailment. "And why do you say you have need of one such as I?" I asked while I thought.

"Because of the forest, lady," he said in a half-whisper, gesturing northwards. "East, west and south, it's just woods—but northwards—nay. It's haunted, belike, or worse. Uncanny things live there, and sometimes take a notion to come out. He kept 'em bound away, so that we never even heard 'em squall on black nights, but since he died—well, we hear 'em, and we're starting to see 'em again just beyond the fence he put 'round 'em, when we have to travel in that direction. We need another magiker to keep 'em bound, and that's a fact."

That made sense; whatever their mage had been holding off, and however he'd done it, the spells he'd set would be fading with his death.

I looked at the headman a little more closely, this time using a touch of mage-sight. "I would say you need one for more than that—or haven't you got a healer hereabouts?" Mage-sight told me his sallow complexion came from a half-poisoned liver; something a simple healing spell could deal with readily.

"Have you skill at healing, too?" He looked like a child with an unexpected abundance of Yule giftings. "Nay, we've no healer; our herb woman died a good three years ago and her kin hadn't the talent. And Master Keighvin, he didn't have the knack, either, though he tried, I'll give him that. Milady, we built him a house; we've kept it cleanly and snug, hoping one such as you would chance this way. If you choose to stay, milady, the house and all he left are yours; keep the evil in the forest bound, and we'll provision you as we did him. Do aught else, and you'll be well repaid, in cash or kind."

The offer was far too tempting to resist. This was just such an opportunity as I had longed for; and whatever it was that had killed Keighvin, I was certain I would be able to deal with it.

"Done," I said.

Perhaps I should have been more cautious; if any evil power had wanted to lay a trap for me, this was the perfect bait. Yet such was my weariness, my longing for a place to settle, that I threw all caution to the winds.

Headman Olam led me to a snug little cottage set apart from the rest of the clustered houses of the village. It was exactly the land of dwelling I would have built for myself, far enough from the village to allow me to feel undisturbed, yet near enough that isolation would not become a burden. Three rooms below it had, and one above—and I knew without his telling me that the one above was the former wizard's room of power and knowledge. I could feel the residuum of magics worked there even from below. For the rest—a bedroom, a sitting room, a tiny kitchen, all showing the subtle carelessness of a bachelor. I probed about me carefully, paying closest attention to the area where the wizard had been found dead, and felt—nothing. Nothing at all, I stood quietly in the very center of the house, and still felt nothing. The house was empty. If Keighvin had been killed by something here, it was long gone. And I was certain my wardings would be proof against any second such intrusion.

I spent the remainder of that day cleaning out all traces of the former owner—although I somehow could not bring myself to destroy his possessions. Instead, I packed them away in three barrels brought me by the miller, and stored them up in the attic.