Lawrence Watt-Evans - Taking Flight

Of course, he didn’t know if Irith wanted all her spells broken, but there was certainly one she would like to be rid of-Fendel’s Infatuous Love Spell.

There was supposed to be a counterspell for that. The prophecy hadn’t mentioned anything about it specifically, but Kelder knew where all the great wizards were supposed to be, and Zindre had said he would see cities, plural. Shan was one; there had to be another.

The three of them had been sitting in silence for several seconds, thinking their several thoughts; now Kelder broke the silence.

“Listen,” he said, “suppose that after we’re done in Angarossa, after Abden’s funeral is all done and his soul set free, we all go on along the highway, all the way to Ethshar, all four of us-you, Irith, and you, Asha, and me, and Ezdral-and see if we can’t find a wizard who can break the love-spell.”

“All four of us?” Irith asked, startled.

“That’s right,” Kelder said, gathering enthusiasm, “all four of us! It would give poor old Ezdral a chance to be with you one last time, just as far as Ethshar-I’m sure we could find a wizard there who could cure him of his infatuation.”

“But why bother?” Irith asked.

“So Ezdral can live out the rest of his life in peace, of course,” Kelder said, annoyed. “And so you can either get rid of the love spell permanently, so you won’t accidentally use it again, or so at least you can learn to dispell it if you do use it.”

As he finished saying this he suddenly realized that he might be making a mistake-if she could turn the love spell on and off, Irith might well use it more often. That was scarcely a good thing.

She would be able to use it on him, whenever they argued.

Well, he told himself, the words were out now, and it was too late to take them back.

“You’re probably right,” Irith agreed thoughtfully. “If one of them could break the spell, I guess that would be nice for poor old Ezdral, wouldn’t it? I mean, it wouldn’t give him his forty years back or anything, he’d still be a horrible old man, but maybe he wouldn’t be so bad.” She brightened. “And then he wouldn’t have any reason to follow me around any more, or bother me at all-not even sit and wait for me, or anything!”

Kelder nodded, pleased that she seemed to have missed his accidental suggestion.

“That would be great!” Irith said. “I don’t like the idea of that awful old man thinking about me all the time.” She paused. “Do we all need to go?”

“Well,” Kelder said, “we probably need to have you there so the wizard can see how your spell works, and we need Ezdral so we can use the counterspell on him, and Asha doesn’t have anywhere else to go except with us, and I want to see that everything works out all right.”

Irith nodded. “I don’t like the idea of being around him,” she said, “but I guess I can stand it as far as Ethshar.”

“Why do we have to go all the way to Ethshar?” Asha asked plaintively.

“Because that’s where all the best wizards are, of course,” Irith told her.

“There are wizards in other places besides Ethshar, aren’t there?” Asha asked.

“Of course there are,” Kelder agreed, “and we’ll look them up along the way-we’ll ask in every village and castle along the Great Highway. I’ve always heard, though, that for real, serious wizardry, the best place to look is Ethshar of the Spices.” Besides, Zindre’s predictions clearly implied that he would see Ethshar before returning home; what other great city was there? The Great Highway ran between Shan and Ethshar, it didn’t go to Sardiron of the Waters or Tintallion of the Coast or any other important cities.

“You can find good magicians in any of the three Ethshars, really,” Irith said, “but Ethshar of the Spices is supposed to be the biggest and best, and it’s certainly the closest. I’ve never been to the other two.” She sipped her ale, and added, “And I haven’t been to Ethshar of the Spices in ages!”

“There are three Ethshars?” Asha asked, in a pitiful little voice.

“Four, actually,” Irith said, counting them off on her fingers. “There are the three in the Hegemony of the Three Ethshars, of course-Ethshar of the Spices, Ethshar of the Rocks, and Ethshar of the Sands-and then there’s a place that calls itself Ethshar of the Plains that’s one of the Small Kingdoms, one of the smallest, over to the southeast of here, just south of Thuth. It split off from Dria right after the Great War ended, I think. Or maybe even before the war ended.”

“I didn’t know that,” Kelder remarked. “I thought there were just the three big ones.”

Irith shrugged. “Well, nobody knows all the Small Kingdoms,” she said, “or at least I don’t think so. There are more than a hundred in all, and who could remember that many? But I know a lot; I’ve traveled all over the northern half of them, not just along the Great Highway.”

“Well,” Kelder said, lifting his ale in salute, “you’ve certainly had time for it.”

Irith eyed him, trying to decide whether he meant anything insulting, and decided that he did not. She smiled at him and sipped her ale.

Kelder watched her, wondering whether her enchantments could all be broken, whether she would be any different if they were, and whether, if both of those were the case, the changes would all be for the better.

The first sign that Ezdral was finally waking up was when he let out his breath in a long, loud whoosh, and stopped snoring.

Kelder and Asha turned to watch him; Irith, sitting by the window brushing her hair, paid no attention.

The old man had not stirred, his eyelids had not so much as flickered, when the three of them had carried him inside, hauled him up the stairs, and dumped him unceremoniously on the little rag rug in their rented room. He had slept the night through without complaint.

Fortunately, his snoring had not been constant, so that the others were able to sleep, as well.

Now he smacked his lips noisily, wheezed slightly, and then blinked.

His eyes opened, widened, and then closed again. His hoarse breath stopped for a moment. He made a guttural noise, and brought one clawed hand up to wipe at his gummy eyes. Then he slowly, carefully, lifted his lids.

He was looking at a tidy little rug, a well-swept plank floor, and one corner of the featherbed Kelder and Irith had innocently shared. (Kelder wished that they hadn’t been quite so innocent, but with Asha in the cot nearby and Ezdral on the floor, he hadn’t pressed his point.)

The old man turned his head and spotted first Asha, and then Kelder. He blinked, and slowly, cautiously pushed himself up into a sitting position. He made a noise that might have been construed as “Good morning” by someone who spoke archaic Mezgalonese, then cleared his throat and said the same thing, more clearly, in Trader’s Tongue.

Then he turned and looked around the room-or at least, he started to.

When his gaze fell upon Irith, sitting by the window humming to herself, it was as if he had been struck. His mouth fell open, his eyes widened; his shoulders tensed, jerking his hands up off the floor, and he swayed unsteadily.

“Irith,” he said hoarsely.

“Good morning, Ezdral,” Irith said, not looking at him.

“Irith,” he said again, his voice stronger now. He started to rise.

Irith turned to face him and announced, “If you touch me, Ezdral, I’ll be out this window and flying away before your fingers can close, and I swear by all the gods that if that happens, you’ll never see me again.”

Ezdral froze as he was, crouched on one knee, staring at her.