Mercedes Lackey - Lamma's Night (anthology)

The magus waited until the girl had returned and Maakus had had a few sips of the wine—which was chilled and excellent—before saying, "So, sir madrigal. What brings you here?"

Maakus paused for a moment, then reached into the satchel at his hip and withdrew a leather-bound book. He set it on the magus' desk and pushed it toward the man. Benzamin leaned forward, his face now fallen into a mask of seriousness, and picked it up gingerly. He flipped through a few pages, and his face fell further, now toward sorrow.

"Aloren," he said, a soft pain in his voice.

Maakus nodded. "I... found this, sir. After she..."

Benzamin swallowed, his throat bobbing. "Thank you, sir madrigal," he said. "I knew Aloren kept a journal. I had wondered what had happened to it. The retrieval of this is much appreciated. I can requisition you a reward of—"

"No money," the bard said, and leaned forward. "Sir..."

The magus raised a brow at him. "I have a feeling you are about to ask for something I cannot give you."

'That might be, sir magus," Maakus said. "But I have to know. What happened ?"

The magus sat back slightly. "That depends," he said. "What do you know?"

"Just what is in that journal and what I got from speaking with her."

Benzamin nodded. "Then... please, tell me."

Maakus smiled slightly. "Ah, Lord Magus, you truly know how to make a bard happy."

Benzamin chuckled, and Maakus began.

"I am haunted," she said, and I was inclined to believe her. The smudges beneath her eyes, the paleness of her skin, the slack fall of her ash-blonde hair. It was hard to look her in the eye for any length of time, and I never could remember her eye color. I had never met her before today, when she caught me coming into town and demanded to speak with me in private, but she was someone I instinctively knew to be honest.

"By what?" I asked. "And why did you ask me to meet you here and not in the house?" "Here" was the only inn the town of Waysedge had to offer. It was small and cramped, but it offered free room and board to any bard, so I couldn't complain. And the innkeep had accommodated us when we asked to be alone.

She frowned. "If we were at my house, he would be watching. He can't leave it, from what I understand. It's where he died...."

"Who?" I asked, my hands flowing in intricate patterns in my lap. A silent spell of remembrance, so I would not forget what transpired between me and this young kioko magus.

Aloren sighed. "His name is Jesamen. He was the kioko magus here before me. Weaver of the Light, to keep the Dark at bay..."

I smiled slightly. Those words, Weaver of the light, to keep the Dark at bay , were almost ritual among the kioko magus of Sellgard; were, in fact, their credo. She said it with the unconscious ease of one who was used to reciting it.

"He died," she went on to say. "But he... It was only a partial death. His body decayed, but his soul remained...."

I blinked, a tiny ripple of chill crawling up my spine. I suppose such words from anyone else I would have called insane. But not from a magus. Not from one such as Aloren.

"Have you told anyone else?" I inquired.

"No. Just you."

"Why?"

"Because you can't do anything," she replied. "You can only watch. If I tell other magi they would try to set him free; if I told a villager, they would burn me for practicing Dark Arts and then touch fire to the house. You are a madrigal. Your job is to observe and listen. And that is all you will do." She caught my gaze again. "I know what you're thinking: 'But what if I tell a villager?'" She smiled. "I would refute your claims, and they would believe me over you. It is I, after all, who they have known for these last six months. It is I who has cast the spells that have turned aside the droughts, the hard rains, the locusts. I break their superstitions, and give them a sense of peace. And there is no other magus within a distance you could reach in time who could stop what I must do. I checked."

I stared at her openly now, wondering if she was mad. I'm still not quite sure that she wasn't.

"All right," I said after a moment. "I won't stop what you're going to do... whatever that may be."

"I... will tell you," she said.

"Why?" I asked, breaking the patterns now that the spell was complete and sustaining.

"Because someone needs to know."

I nodded. "All right."

"In five days is Lammas Night," she said. "The Darkest night."

I frowned. "I thought the darkest night was during winter or late fall—"

"No. You are not listening. I said the Darkest night, not the blackest night. Lammas Night is the night that a spirit—with the help of magic—may step through the shadowed veils of death's realm and enter into this one. Permanently. In the flesh.

"Lammas Night is the night Jesamen died, exactly one year ago."

I took another swallow of wine. "Go on," I said.

"The state Jesamen exists in now is a unnatural one. He stands on the border of the two lands, a denizen of shadow. He... has asked me to bring him back to life."

I absorbed this for a moment, then said, "How?"

"It is in a book that was his," she said, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "A grimoire of the dead. I had thought such books no longer existed, but..." She paused. "From it, if I perform the spells correctly, I can do one of two things. Set him free in the lands of the living, or set him free in the lands of the dead.

"And I do not know which I will choose."

I frowned. "Well, the choice is obvious—"

She laughed. "Is it? What would be your choice?"

"I would let him die. Obviously, the gods willed that he should be dead, and, through some unnatural means—perhaps even of his own making—he has lingered on."

"Ah, I see. So not only do you decide who lives and who died, but you are also privy to the gods." Her words were laced with a fierce sarcasm.

I sighed. "It would be unnatural to bring him back,"

"It is also unnatural to linger in the shadow," she said softly. "The power to return him to his original state on this earth is within me. Why else would it be there save to use?"

I went silent, thinking of this, then said, "Lady, I do not envy your choice."

She smiled bitterly. "But it is my choice, as the gods seem to have decreed. And, in the end, I would have it no other way."

"And what do you wish me to do?"

"Stay," she said. "Until after Lammas Night. I will make my decision that night. I have no other alternative."

I blinked. "Why not?"

"Because after that night he departs whether I do anything or not."

I frowned. "Shouldn't that answer all your questions right there?"

She shook her head. "You don't understand. He has... for whatever twisted reason of the gods, become bound to my soul, like strings on a lute. Pluck the strings, and the lute vibrates. Cut the strings yourself, and they snap, leaving the lute intact. But expose both to wind and weather, and not only do the strings corrode, but the lute will warp and crack."

The shiver of ice now grew claws, drawing ragged lines of chill across my chest.

"So if he departs..." I said slowly.

Her voice went so quiet I could hardly hear her, "I go with him."

Benzamin waited until Maakus' glass had been refilled before talking.

"What else?" he asked.

"Other than that, I saw her but a few more times. All other knowledge I have acquired was from the book."

Benzamin nodded.

"The book is not accurate, though."

The High Lord raised a brow.

"It only holds passages of what occurred before Lammas Night. Nothing after it."

"And that is what you wish to know?"

"Indeed, High Lord."

Benzamin nodded and rubbed his chin.