Footwizard

by Terry Mancour

  “Thar ain’t no excuse,” dismissed the geezer with a grunt. “We didn’t forget about them, did we? But ignorant or no, they’re our folk,” he decided. “Kin is kin, and we can’t get another. We’re glad you’re here, Count Minalan. No doubt Lord Kanset and Lady Tandine will agree,” he said, thoughtfully.

  “The son and daughter of the current lord?” I prompted.

  “Oh, aye, and a noble pair they are,” he assured. “Why Lord Kanset is as wise as a wizard, in most estimations. And Lady Tandine is as bold as a knight, and fights as well as one, too.”

  “She does?” Alya asked, intrigued.

  “Oh, aye,” the geezer said, as if it was a law of nature, “She’s always had her mother’s spirit, and a practical outlook. When the dragonmen attacked when she was just a maiden, she was in the field with a sword ere her brother,” he chuckled, fondly. “She fights with lance, but she’s the mistress of the bow, and her swordplay is legendary. She’s not content with spinning and sewing, like any Wilderlord’s daughter. Nor is Lord Kanset a mere knight; it’s said the lord knows his letters and figures, and studies the lore like a scholar,” he said, reverently.

  “I look forward to meeting them both,” I smiled. “The Magelaw needs such people in abundance, to face the challenges we do.”

  There was a lot of gossip floating around the market that I just did not have the context to understand, which was frustrating. And many words were used I did not understand – a mixture of Kasari, Narasi, the tongue of the Kilnusk and the speech of the Tal Alon. But I got enough of the gist of their chatter to discern that the young Kanset and Tandine were the pride of Anferny, well-respected, and known for their nobility in the general sense, as well as their titles.

  “It sounds like a lovely place, Anferny,” Alya said, as we were walking back to the inn, arm in arm. “Like home, kind of. Only quainter.”

  “Oh, I thought Boval Vale was plenty quaint,” I observed. “Indeed, quaintness was in more abundance than even the cheese. I think both places suffer from the blessing of remoteness. Such place breed unique and unusual customs, due to their insular nature. I mean, how many strangers – apart from cheese merchants – did you really meet at the edge of the world in Boval Vale?”

  “Not many,” she conceded. “Nor did many even in the Wilderlands know of our little vale – outside of the cheese merchants. But this place is beyond Callierd,” she reminded me. “If remoteness breeds quaintness, I expect it to be in abundance, in Anferny.”

  “I’m just amazed that they’ve been able to sustain the colony for so long, being so isolated. It’s not as if they can call on nearby lords for their defense. The Kasari don’t consider them to be the legitimate, from what I understand. They claim their settlement as sovereign since it pre-dates the Narasi. Not that that precludes trade with the folk of Anferny,” I said, gesturing to one of the Kasari delegation that was debating with the geezer over the price of a few sacks of wheat and three coils of rope. “But that doesn’t mean they accept their authority.”

  “No doubt they have some constant, that keeps them centered,” she mused, smiling wanly.

  “Constant, my lady wife?” I asked, curious at her turn of phrase.

  “Is that not what you magi say, when you are referring to some element of magic – or the universe at large – that is eternal and unchanging in your calculations?” she pointed out.

  “Well, of course,” I admitted. “You can’t get through Elementary Thaumaturgy without memorizing a dozen important constants. Without them, magic would be entirely subjective – wild, as they say. They’re even more important in advanced studies.”

  “Which is why I suspect that the folk of Anferny may cling to ideas about the Wilderlands and the Wilderlords that may keep them orderly,” she reasoned. “We did so in Boval Vale, I’m coming to realize. We idolized Sire Koucey,” she reflected. “Far more than he deserved, and far more than the Wilderfolk did to their lords in the Wilderlands, proper. Perhaps it was the lack of a shrine or temple to provide any competition, but the Bovali had a reverence for the lord of the vale that was our constant. Just as you were my constant,” she revealed.

  “I? I was your constant?” I asked, confused.

  “After Greenflower,” she said, looking down and a bit uncomfortable. “Not directly after, of course – I remember nothing from that time, which is likely a boon from the gods. But as you treated me with the Handmaiden and helped me back from madness, I needed a constant on which to dwell to keep from losing myself again. I was lost in madness, and while the Handmaiden allowed me some sense of direction, I needed a constant like that to keep my course straight. That was you,” she said, simply.

  “How was I a constant?” I scoffed. “A constant irritant, perhaps – particularly in those early days. But I hardly contributed to your therapy, except by happenstance. That was Lilastien, more than anyone. And the Handmaiden,” I said, withdrawing the orb from a pouch. It was, alas, nearly inert in the realm of the jevolar. There was still activity within, as the center of the Snowflake pulsated within the irionite sphere. But it was as cold as a stone to the touch, compared to the usual effect of me handling it. It felt odd. There was no feeling of magic.

  “They were effective, perhaps, but it was the thought of you who guided me ever through the strangeness and madness. Your voice. Your face. Your touch. I didn’t even know who you were, half the time, but I knew you were important. Important enough to want to come back to. My constant,” she said, with a hint of embarrassment.

  “I can’t imagine I deserve such credit,” I chuckled. “I worried over you like an old hen. I contemplated the craziest ideas to try to mend you.”

  “Like storming the lair of the Necromancer as a distraction while you prowled the underworld seeking my salvation?” Alya challenged. “There was a reason you were my constant, Min. You had devoted your entire being to healing me when it seemed impossible. How could I not feel that devotion and understand? You were like the Triad to me.”

  For those who have not studied Astronomy, as, say, a part of an Imperial education into magic and more mundane matters, might not understand the significance of that, particularly if you live fairly far south. The Triad, you see, is the trio of stars that sits at uttermost north in a nearly perfect equilateral configuration. Indeed, it is the Triad that the three green stars of the traditional sign of the spellmongers mimics. They also have the reverence of the Alka Alon. According to whispered legend, it was the sight of the Triad in the north that convinced them that Callidore was destined to become their home, when they first came here.

  Just as you can’t see the Void if you come too far north, the Triad drops lower to the horizon the farther south you go. Yet every star in the sky still rotates around them. They stay in the center of our view, unchanging, all year long. It was an impressive metaphor.

  I paused, as I considered the importance of what she was saying. This was, surprisingly, the most candid – and the sanest – discussion Alya and I had had about her illness since she’d begun to recover. Indeed, I’d all but resigned myself to having a half-mad wife for the rest of my life. That didn’t bother me. I’d seen husbands tormented by other sorts of wives, and I still counted myself fortunate.

  But since we’d come to Anghysbel, I had to admit that – even without the treatments the Handmaiden had provided for almost two years, now – Alya seemed more sane and more human than she’d been at any time since her duel with Isily.

  That surprised me, intrigued me . . . and concerned me. Magic was supposed to be healing her, yet in the absence of magic she seemed more her old self than usual. Perhaps that’s not fair – the Alya who spoke to me now seemed to have a bit more mature wisdom and seriousness about her than the woman who’d helped me build Sevendor. But then she’d been through a lot.

  “You see, I always thought that it was the Handmaiden that provided that stability for you,” I admitted. “It was she, after all, who was mending you.”

  “Mending m
ight be the wrong word,” she considered. “She is remaking me. Not against my will, but not always with my participation. But without you as my constant, I might have drifted off into madness or indifference and lost much of what there is of me left, in the process.”

  “You seem far more aware of the process than I suspected,” I observed, quietly.

  “When the process directly involves my awareness, that’s hard to avoid,” she pointed out. “Being my constant does not mean I revere you like a god. I am also aware of the many – many – things that you do that confuse or annoy or irritate me. Indeed, that is a portion of the constancy,” she giggled. “You are my Minalan. The important part is not that you are Minalan, but that you are mine,” she emphasized. “Regardless of my confusion or terror at the process of remaking me, knowing – without doubt – that you belonged to me and I to you was what kept me from the edge of madness. You were my constant, and I would be insane or detached to the point of oblivion right now if you were not.”

  It was a simple declaration, but I could not doubt her sincerity. Indeed, she delivered the startling observation with such dedication and certainty that it scared me a little bit. Being a good husband to your wife is important, and I placed a lot of my self-awareness in that fact. But being the reason why your wife was currently not screaming at candles or giggling at spoons or staring at walls for hour on end for no particular reason gave me pause. I might be the most powerful wizard in history, according to my ego, but I’d really done nothing to deserve that kind of devotion.

  It gave me a lot to think about, at dinner that evening and while I tried to get to sleep after some particularly passionate lovemaking that evening. That, at least, was something I could understand. Alya had had an unusually lusty response to our taking rooms at an inn since we were married, I knew.

  But the rest . . . to be responsible for her sanity not because of the great deeds I did, but because I was the thing her mind expediently latched on to as the Handmaiden stitched her soul back together was a little overwhelming. I suppose it’s always a bit of a shock to realize just how important we really are to the people in our lives. And almost never for the reasons we think.

  The next morning, as most of our party prepared to continue our journey to Anferny, an odd thing occurred.

  There’s always a bit of commercial activity after a market officially closes, even in tightly regulated towns. No merchant wants to return home with unsold merchandise, when he could take home good coin, and Midmarket was more lax than most market towns in permitting such trade. I made one last journey through the stalls as the traders were packing up their wares and negotiating last-minute deals, just to see what bargains were available before we departed. Perhaps a lord born into the nobility would not have deigned to sully himself with such common matters, but I was a baker’s son. Leaving a good bargain at market was not in my nature.

  I was considering one of the bolts of brilliantly-colored cloth in the back of a Kilnusk cart when I suddenly the unmistakable feeling that someone was watching me. Not the heavyset dwarves who were eager to sell me a bolt of cloth, I realized, but someone else. It was an odd feeling, without magic to aid me. But everyone has that sort of feeling, I knew, whether they had rajira or not.

  I looked up and glanced around the market square, looking for the source of my discomfort. No one seemed particularly interested in what I was doing, from what I could see. Everyone was determined to pack up their carts and pack animals and head for home, with as light a load as they could manage. No one paid much attention to the count bargain-hunting in the square.

  And then I saw him. Standing near to the gate of the town and overlooking the market square was a strange figure, which said a lot, considering where I was. But the creature who regarded me with such an intent stare was one of the oddest I’d encountered in this lost land.

  It seemed a short man, or a tall dwarf – though it did not have the heft of the Kilnusk. Nor did it have the beard that I’d come to associate with the Karshak and Dradrien. Indeed, its face and pate was shaven clean, as if it had never seen whiskers. The result was not attractive. Indeed, it was nearly repulsive, wrinkled like the last apple in the storehouse at the end of a particularly harsh winter. He was old, by every indication, passing old. The creature wore naught but a long black robe with a hood thrown back. The eyes that regarded me were dark and beady, and didn’t just stare at me. They stared through me.

  “Who is that?” I asked the Kilnusk merchant who was patiently waiting on me, with a nod of my head. It took the dwarf a moment to see who I meant, but when he did, he appeared startled.

  “Oh, him?” he said with a shudder, in broken Narasi. “That’s Davachan.”

  “Is that a race or a name?” I prompted. It took the dwarf a few moments to translate in his head.

  “Davachan? That is a title. His name is no more,” he said, gravely. “He was once a mighty stonesinger of the Karshak. But then . . . we shall not speak of it,” he decided, abruptly. “It is not my tale to tell, for it is dark and filled with dread. He was cast out,” he said, his voice low and choking on every word. “He is the reason for our exile,” he added, with especial bile.

  “Him?” I asked, surprised. “He doesn’t look like much. In fact, he looks like a Karshak that has been crumbled up and stuck in a cellar for a hundred years.”

  “Four hundred,” grunted the merchant. “And he was near four hundred years when he was exiled, and given to the service of the Yith as punishment. But I will say no more. Do ye want the cloth, or no?” he asked, clearly upset.

  I didn’t end up buying the cloth, as pretty as it was. In truth I was so unnerved by Davachan’s unrelenting stare that I bustled off to where Ormar and the others were preparing the carts to follow the Anferny merchants back home. Lilastien was seated on one of the wains, studying her tablet. I had to ask her about the strange little figure who seemed so intent on me.

  “Davachan? Of course they would call him that,” she reflected when I related the tale. “Just as I am known as Elre. His name means ‘betrayer.’ And no less than he deserves,” she sighed, sadly.

  “That seems a bit harsh,” I offered.

  “Not harsh enough, by some standards,” the Sorceress of Sartha Wood decided, after a moment’s thought. “I suppose you can consider him a fellow criminal, by the standards of his race.”

  “Ishi’s tits! What did he do?” I asked.

  “What did he do?” Lilastien said, in a dreamy voice. “Why, Davachan is the stonesinger responsible for the great delving in the Kulines. About the time your ancestors were sacking the Imperial capital. He dug too deeply, and against the wisdom of his peers, who cautioned him. But the datavor – sorry, that’s a kind of Kilnusk official who oversees such matters for the Karshak – his datavor granted him permission, and he continued.”

  “And did what?” I asked. “Discover a particularly belligerent seam of coal?”

  “No, Minalan,” she said, ignoring my humor. “No, he breached a sealed chamber. One in which a terror was hidden. A terror from the ancient times, before your people or mine came to this world. Something hidden from the light for a thousand millennia or more. Davachan chose to continue his delving, though the wisest of his people demanded he stop. He had his datavor’s permission, and the pride of his people. He felt none was better equipped to confront such a horror. He was wrong.”

  “Wrong? You speak in riddles, Elre,” I said, using her title on purpose.

  She sighed. “That’s what Alka Alon do, if you haven’t noticed,” she said, dryly. “It allows us to skirt uncomfortable truths and unbearable certainties behind a veil of deniability. From a humani perspective, it can be quite frustrating, an indication that the Alka Alon are afraid to commit to anything. While I could argue that it is mere subtlety, the fact is that your folk are correct in this assessment, most times. We use ambiguity to weasel our way out of accountability. One of our worst deficits, as a race,” she condemned.

  “Yet yo
u employ it even now to avoid the subject at hand,” I pointed out. “Speak plainly, please. This . . . creature has quite unnerved me, and the more I learn about him, the more I feel anxious about it.”

  “A fair point, Spellmonger,” she chuckled. “Very well, the plain facts. You must make up your own mind about their meaning.

  “About the time the Second Magocracy fell,” she related, “the Karshak were delving deep beneath the Kulines, where their stonesingers were certain great riches and treasures could be found. Their history is replete with such expeditions; the explorations of the Karshak are legendary, even amongst the dwarves.

  “But one stonesinger was willing to defy the judgement of his peers. The Kilnusk datavor assigned to his crew agreed, though the omens the Karshak take so seriously were all against it. Pride,” she declared, “the pride of the Karshak in their own abilities drove him to continue when he had permission. That is when it happened.”

  “What happened? And remember, I only have a lifespan of sixty years or so, at best,” I reminded her. “Try not to embellish too much.”

  “The event needs no embellishment,” she said once again ignoring my jibe. When Davachan ordered his prospectors to push forward into the chamber, they unleashed the terror – a beast from the elder days. One of the many vassals of the Formless, a powerful one,” she said, her voice no more than a whisper. “One thought long dead before we even came here. Yet it survived, in torpor, in the deepest cavern it could find or contrive to make, hiding from the Vundel after its disastrous but victorious war against them.”

  “Oh, dear,” I said, at the invocation of the Sea Folk.

  “I think a stronger expletive is called for, in this case. The other stonesingers insisted it was a bad idea, but Davachan plowed ahead. When the beast was released, it killed more than a thousand, and haunted the caverns of the Kulines for near a decade, slaying every Karshak it encountered.

  “At last, the Karshak’s chief finally persuaded the Kilnusk to request the assistance of the Alka Alon Council to contain the beast. The Council obliged, to great sorrow, not understanding what it was they faced. It took another decade and cost the lives of hundreds of Alka Alon and thousands of Karshak before the beast was finally defeated and slain.”