Lamma's Night (anthology)

be anything but homely, but Narvik forgot that as he watched.

'Nobody... nobody ever gave me a flower before,' she whispered. 'Thank you.'

She slid the frail stem into a small vase and set it in the center of the table, blushing and smiling.

Wythen woke in blue, predawn light and crawled reluctantly out of bed, shivering as she drew her robe around her shoulders and stooped to stoke the banked fire. She lit a splinter of wood at the cheerful flames, using it to light the oil lantern on the mantlepiece—and froze, as she saw a book on the table.

'What is it, Narvik?' she whispered. 'Is trouble coming?'

As before, a clean straw marked a place and she opened the book to the page indicated. Leaning close she read: 'To Lay a Troubled Spirit.'

Wythen closed her eyes and bit her lip, as grief shot through her. Rest, she thought. He wants to rest. Her fingers curled to slam the book shut in denial. No. I killed him. I cannot wrong him again.

'I'm sorry,' she said, and began to read.

'I-I've never done anything so complex,' she stammered. This time it was fear that made her fingers itch to close the book. The diagrams alone... and the danger, if only one thing went wrong.

A feeling passed by her eyes as she sat; warmth, comfort, the touch of a hand on her shoulder. 'Every time I think of you, my heart breaks,' she said. Then she sat a little straighter. 'But if this is what you want, I will try.'

Slowly and deliberately, the page before her turned... in still, cold air that didn't even ruffle the wisp of hair at the back of her neck. That rose on its own. To find the results of Narvik's actions was one thing; to see them in the waking day, another.

She read, 'To Bring the Mage-Born Back to Life When Untimely Slain.' Her heart gave a kick. This is what he wants! It was what she wanted too. Of course she'd have to leave then, but still...

She read the spell and frowned. But for one word, they were identical.

She sighed and rubbed her forehead. He was so fair, she thought, to show me both. Leaving the decision up to her.

I must give up Parney, she thought bleakly. Friends. Respect. Home. The road again, the loneliness and the cold rain.

Or... he might turn her over to the Syndic for trial. He'd seemed to forgive her, but... trust no one, her teacher Navila had warned, cackling, not even me.

She sighed. Either spell must be worked on Lammas Night, two months away. She'd plenty of time to think about it.

Carefully, she closed the book. 'I will,' she promised. 'Narvik, I will.'

In a place that had neither dark, nor any hint of light, Navila the Yellow chuckled. I shall live! she sang.

No more clinging to her former apprentice, feeding from her energy like a bloated tick. No more having to store up that energy until she was strong enough to claim the use of Wythen's body. Nor of being forced out when that power was gone.

I know her, Navila thought. Little fool! Wythen would choose to bring the handsome sorcerer back to life. All she need do was wait for the precise moment, seize Wythen's voice and say Navila instead of Narvik. Then I shall live!

Whether the fool noticed or not, the spell must be completed or the magician would die. And Wythen was tenacious of life, as she had cause to know. Then Navila would make her a slave again. The chains forged when Wythen was a child were still there, requiring little effort to take them in hand again.

And then we'll have some fun with the good people of Parney, eh? Beginning with Narvik There were most entertaining things one could do to a ghost.

* * *

Narvik's tomb stood in Radola's family vault; plain limestone among the marble and porphyry. The lock turned with a snapping click, and the door shrieked as Wythen pushed it to. It was both chilly and a little damp, half an hour short of midnight.

She stepped to the center of the floor and extended her staff, chanting. And chanting she turned, the bronze ferule tracing a circle on the stone precisely as a geometer could have graven with a compass. Blue-green light sprang up behind it.

'Aleph,' she said, when the circle was complete, and grounded the staff with a thump in the center of the ring.

It stood rigid when she removed her hand, as if sunken half its length in the living rock.

Wythen began to trace the outer edge of the circle, trickling a precise handful of sea salt.

'Arlin's bigghes have mickle might

Strong to daunt and strong to bind;

None may dare the sun-strong line,

None may cross the salt-drawn cord—'

When the last glyph was drawn she forced a word through lips already numb with fatigue: 'Gimel.' They shone around her, silver and green and blood-red, living shapes of power.

Navila watched Wythen work, with critical attention. Taught her better than I