‘Bercy, child, this is only a fancy. It will pass.’
‘No,’ she wept. ‘I love you, I want only you!’
And then, unmistakably, along the magician’s nerves, Lythande felt that little
ripple, that warning thrill of tension which said: spell-casting is in use. Not
against Lythande. That could have been countered. But somewhere within the room.
Here, in the Aphrodisia House? Myrtis, Lythande knew, could be trusted with
life, reputation, fortune, the magical power of the Blue Star itself; she had
been tested before this. Had she altered enough to turn betrayer, it would have
been apparent in her aura when Lythande came near.
That left only the girl, who was clinging and whimpering, ‘I will die if you do
not love me! I will die! Tell me it is not true, Lythande, that you are unable
to love! Tell me it is an evil lie that magicians are emasculated, incapable of
loving woman …’
‘That is certainly an evil lie,’ Lythande agreed gravely. ‘I give you my solemn
assurance that I have never been emasculated.’ But Lythande’s nerves tingled as
the words were spoken. A magician might lie, and most of them did. Lythande
would lie as readily as any other, in a good cause. But the law of the Blue Star
was this: when questioned directly on a matter bearing directly on the Secret,
the adept might not tell a direct lie. And Bercy, unknowing, was only one
question away from the fatal one hiding the Secret.
With a mighty effort, Lythande’s magic wrenched at the very fabric of Time
itself; the girl stood motionless, aware of no lapse, as Lythande stepped away