it.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “You will be — but whether I let you do anything about it is another matter entirely.” With that, she tossed him her clothing and ran splashing into the surf.
On an evening a few days later, as they were walking up to the house with feet wet from splashing in the tidal pools, Iridith asked, “What are you planning to do when I’ve completed the spell?”
“I’ll go home, of course,” Valder replied.
“To Kardoret?”
Startled, he almost shouted, “No!” Calming, he added, “I’m not even sure it’s still there; it wasn’t much of a place to begin with. No, I meant my inn, the Thief’s Skull — or the Inn at the Bridge, as it was originally called.”
“Sounds dull.”
“Oh, no! It isn’t, really. We get travelers from all over, from Sardiron and the Small Kingdoms and all of the Hegemony, and hear their stories. Every sort of person imaginable stops at an inn sooner or later, and after a day on the road most are eager to talk, so it’s never dull. I hear news that never reaches the city and get many of the great adventures described firsthand. It’s a fine life. This house you have here, it’s a splendid house, but it’s rather lonely, isn’t it? Your nearest neighbors are fishermen a league down the coast in either direction, or farmers half a league inland.”
“I got tired of people decades ago,” she answered. “After the war, I didn’t think I ever wanted to see ordinary people again. I’ve taken on apprentices, of course; I wasn’t really lonely here.”
“I see,” Valder said as they reached the steps to the veranda.
They crossed the plank flooring of the porch in silence, but, as Valder opened the door to the parlor, Iridith said, “You know, nobody will recognize you when you go back. They know you as an old man, not a young one.”
“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.”
CHAPTER 33
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 gray, 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 afterward. 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 gray 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, reveling 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,
