Valder had to admit the truth of these arguments.
“Well, then, you see that there is a way around your curse; all you need is a perpetual youth spell.”
“And just how am I to get one? Why would these immortal wizards you speak of allow me, a mere innkeeper, what they would not permit Azrad? And just who are these people, anyway? Plenty of wizards grow old and die; I’ve seen it happen. Who decides who will be made young?”
“Oh, that’s simple enough; anyone who can handle the spells is permitted to use them. After all, how could we stop them? The difficulty is that the spells involved are all of a very high order; the one that I used was an eleventh-order spell. From what you’ve said of your difficulties with Wirikidor, I’m sure you know that very few wizards ever become capable of handling such spells in the course of a normal lifetime. Among those who do, the spells are not secret; in fact, any member of the Wizards’ Guild who asks is given whichever recipe he might choose. In most cases, since failure usually results in a messy death, wizards wait until they are either capable of handling the magic involved or are old enough to be desperate.”
“You mean all the wizards know about these youth spells?”
“Most of them, anyway.”
“How can you keep secret what so many know?”
“Oh, well, that’s an advantage of being wizards; the Guild has ways of keeping secrets that don’t bear explaining.”
“Why don’t the wizards object to not being given immortality, then?”
“But they all have the opportunity to earn it, you see, if they’re good enough at their craft. Most aren’t — but that possibility is always there. If we were to cast the spell on every poor fool who manages to survive an apprenticeship, the world would fill up with wizards until there was no room for anyone else.”
“And how am I to earn it? Are you suggesting I become a wizards’ apprentice at the age of sixty-six and hope that by some miracle I live long enough to learn an eleventh-order spell?”
“It would hardly take a miracle, with Wirikidor involved; but no, that’s not at all what I propose. I intend to enchant you myself.”
“But you just finished explaining why the spell wasn’t given out!”
“It’s not given out to just anyone, Valder, but you’re a special case. You saved my life last night, and, after two hundred and eighty-eight years, I consider my life rather precious. Besides, for forty years you’ve lived quietly, despite owning a sword that could have put you on a throne in the Small Kingdoms or otherwise cut a swathe in the world’s affairs; I don’t think the Guild need worry too much that you’ll upset anything or take unfair advantage of extended youth. In fact, you already have immortality, and that’s the hard part; all I’ll be doing is restoring your youth, not extending your lifespan. I’ll be saving eighteen other lives, as well; you’ll have no need to draw Wirikidor again, no reason to want to be murdered. More than eighteen, since after your death the sword would take a new owner, who would have to kill his own quota before he could die. That’s a very nasty sword you have there, and I’m sure that taking it out of circulation indefinitely is a good enough reason to grant you your youth. I’m certain my Guild colleagues will agree.”
“Just because I haven’t done anything stupid? A life is a life, that’s all, and I never saw any reason to treat mine differently because of Wirikidor.”
“Ah, but that’s what makes you special! Most people would have shaped their lives around the sword.”
“You can’t just remove the spell somehow?” Valder was not sure whether he wanted to be young again; the idea was strange, unfamiliar, and he needed time before he could accept it fully.
“I could, actually, but we would both die as a result, and I am not in the least interested in dying.”
Valder was not interested in dying, either. Here, finally, was his way out, if he could only accept it. He would be young again — he would live forever, if he chose. He could not help but think that there was some trick to it, some hidden catch; it had been wizardry that had complicated his situation in the first place, when the hermit had wanted to get rid of him. Now another wizard was volunteering to interfere with his life, and he was sure there would be drawbacks — but he could not think of any. After several minutes of thought, he reached a decision. He would not be deterred by his previous experience. He would accept this incredible gift being offered him. Perhaps with new youth, his eyesight would return to what it had once been; he would like that.
“All right,” he said, pushing his chair back from the breakfast table. “What do we do now?”
Iridith smiled. “Come with me.”
CHAPTER 31
The house by the seaside was pleasant enough, with its covered porches and wooden walkways down to the beach, but it was not at all what Valder had expected of a centuries-old wizard capable of eleventh-order magic. He had been expecting a glittering palace, not a ramshackle old house with walls of rough wood and fieldstone and a roof of thatch.
He mentioned this to Iridith, who replied, “I had a palace once; it seemed the thing to do at the time. This is more comfortable.”
Valder found that hard to believe at first, looking over the cobwebbed furnishings and feeling the cool, damp sea breeze blowing through the chinks, but he had to admit that, after Iridith had cast a restorative spell or two and conjured up a blazing fire, the house was quite cozy.
The main structure, not counting the sprawling verandas and terraces, contained just four rooms — an immense workshop filled with the arcana of the wizardly trade occupied the entire western end, a fair-sized bedroom the southeast corner, a small kitchen the northeast, and a small parlor faced south toward the sea at the center. Each room was equipped with a vast stone hearth and cavernous fireplace; when all four were lighted, the moist chill that had bothered Valder vanished in a matter of moments.
They had arrived shortly before midday; the flight from Ethshar of the Spices had been quite brief, just across the peninsula to the southern shore. It had been Valder’s first flight in more than forty years and quite a refreshing experience; he had forgotten how exciting it was to soar above the landscape and remembered wryly how he had taken it for granted during his time as an assassin.
“You’ll sleep in the parlor,” Iridith told him, “if you have no objection.”
“I’m scarcely in a position to object,” he replied. “But how long do you expect me to be staying here?”
“I can’t really say; until I’ve gotten the approval of the elders of the Guild and gathered the ingredients I need for Enral’s Eternal Youth Spell.”
“Oh? What are the ingredients?”
“I don’t remember them all; I’ll need to look it up. I do know that I’ll want powdered spider, blue silk, cold iron, dried seaweed, candles colored with virgin’s blood, and the tears of a female dragon; I don’t recall the others offhand.”
“Virgin’s blood and dragon’s tears?”
“I think you’ll be staying for a while; those are the easy ones.”
“Oh.” He looked around. “The parlor should do just fine.”