Footwizard

by Terry Mancour

  Rolof was an intriguing character. He seemed as self-possessed as Fondaras, but with a kind of aloofness that the footwizard lacked. Fondaras was always as genuine and friendly as you could ask. Rolof had a deep skepticism and suspicion about him that made him sharp, at times. It could be a little disconcerting, but I’d dealt with more difficult personalities – Caswallon, Wenek, Sarakeem, Azar, even Astyral challenged me with their peculiarities. I had grown used to ignoring the irritating parts of them and focusing on the positives. I resolved to do the same with Rolof.

  Dinner was excellent, and while we sat around and ate, Rolof began to fill us all in on some of the more curious aspects of Anghysbel he’d observed over the years.

  The man had stories to tell. He’d ranged most of the valley, in the few years he’d been here, poking his nose into caverns and caves, diving into the thickest forests and most desolate places, exploring the details of a land most could only visit a few weeks out of the year. After a particularly long and entertaining story about the antics of the Kilnusk warriors on a stora hunt and what happened when the Tal Alon tried to join them, I began to get a sense of his perspective.

  Some wizards travel the world and try to see it all. Some wizards invest themselves so much in one small place that they see details a casual traveler – or even a fellow resident -- would never notice. Rolof was the latter sort. Obscurity suited him well.

  The next morning, we rose before dawn and had a quick breakfast before Rolof led us back down the slope and then northwest, toward the dragon’s lake.

  We could see it, from one prominent outcropping, a crescent of shining blue just above the trees in the distance.

  “See how it’s nearly circular?” Rolof pointed out. “And see the island, against the cliff? That’s the heart of the western jevolar. A great rock from the sky crashed through the ridge over there, and then came to rest at the northern wall. On the other side of the ridge, you can see the other’s path. The explosion was so ferocious that the dust blotted out the sun for nearly a decade. I hesitate to think what would have happened had they landed at the same time, together.”

  We stared at the seemingly tranquil lake in silence for a moment, as we all imagined the kind of shockwave such a large rock moving at speed would produce. I doubt our imaginations did it justice.

  We continued our journey as the path wound its way through the overgrowth, the trail just adequate for riding. Travid and Rolof continued to point out plants and animals of particular interest. We tried to take notes, of course, but that’s difficult on horseback. But it wasn’t a long journey. We found our way to one of Ameras’ encampments by midmorning. She was not there.

  It was an idyllic little glade growing around a massive boulder, with a tiny spring at its base. Signs of authentic Alka Alon presence were everywhere, from the tiny stool and kitchen tools to the artful arrangement of edible plants that the Scion of the Aronin had cultivated nearby. A large evergreen – a rhododendron species – was blooming huge, fragrant flowers overhead, as we investigated the camp. It was an intoxicating aroma.

  “The lady of the house – tree – doesn’t seem to be in,” Tyndal noted, as he looked around.

  “This is her main camp,” Rolof explained. “She’s been gone from here for two days,” he added, as he inspected her small fire pit. “That means she’s at the lakeside camp,” he reasoned. “It’s not far.”

  “And if she isn’t there?” demanded Ormar.

  “Then she’s on the island with Avius,” he supplied. “It’s not far, either.”

  “Certain death chatting with a dragon isn’t far,” Ormar nodded. “Somehow, I don’t find that reassuring.”

  “It isn’t meant to be reassuring,” Rolof said, shrugging as he prepared to leave. “She can kill you with a casual thought. But death isn’t certain. It really relies on your behavior. And self-restraint. Avius isn’t a beast,” the wizard admonished. “She’s been abused by those who would use her power for their own ends. You fought in Farise; surely you can understand that.”

  Ormar paused and looked thoughtful. “All right, when you put it like that . . .”

  “There really isn’t much difference,” Rolof continued, as he marched out of the encampment. “Both of you were mere assets to be used against a foe that other people decided needed to be fought.”

  “The glaring difference being the fact that she outweighs me by a couple of tons, breathes fire, and can open up a castle like a crock of fermented cabbage,” the alchemist pointed out.

  “Some assets are worth more than others,” Rolof said, serenely, as he headed back down the trail. “Try not to be insecure about it. There’s always someone bigger and stronger than you in the cosmos. Whine about it, and she might take exception,” he warned.

  “Oh, this is going to be lovely,” Ormar sighed to himself.

  “Why is Ameras so drawn to this dragon?” I asked, cautiously.

  “The same reason she’s drawn to me,” sniffed Rolof. “She’s lonely, and she seeks intelligent company. With the dragon, she comes close to that.”

  “My people don’t fare well with solitude, apart from certain circumstances,” agreed Lilastien, in a murmur. “In a place without magic, without that connection we usually feel, it can be maddening.”

  “Which is why you drink your nut juice,” I pointed out, following Rolof out of the clearing.

  “Every day,” she nodded. “It helps, a little, even in the realm of the jevolar. There’s no telling how long Ameras has been without it. Gossiping with dragons may be the least of her eccentricities, by now,” she warned.

  “She’s shagging Rolof,” Tyndal pointed out, from behind me. “That’s proof she’s a couple of shafts shy of a quiver.”

  “What makes you think that?” I asked, intrigued.

  Tyndal shrugged. “Look at him. No one is that loyal and that willing to make excuses for a maiden he’s not shagging. Not if he’s sane,” he added.

  I stopped myself from commenting. There wasn’t much I took away from my conversation with Rolof in his croft that convinced me of his sanity. Scrumping a half-crazed Alka Alon maiden in the hinterlands would be almost reasonable, in his circumstance.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time one of my people indulged in some clandestine cross-species . . . comfort,” Lilastien suggested. “Some of us can grow quite fond of select members of your species. It’s like having a dog, sort of. Don’t hold it against her.”

  “I was going to hold it against him,” Tyndal replied. “I remember her. She can’t be more than four feet tall. How does that kind of thing work?” he demanded. He seemed to be earnest in his inquiry.

  “You get bored enough, you find a way,” shrugged Lilastien. “How are things going with Lady Tandine?” she asked, cagily changing the subject. “I saw how cozy you were getting, back at the Cave of the Ancients.”

  Tyndal blushed, something I wasn’t sure he was capable of. “I . . . we’re . . . it’s complex,” he admitted, with a sigh. “I confess, I admire the lady. She’s quite comely, and not a little intelligent.”

  “She fights well enough,” Ormar offered.

  “Yes, she does,” Tyndal agreed with a sigh. “Like a Wilderlord. Her spirit is . . . is . . . admirable,” he said, struggling with the word. Or, perhaps, the feeling behind the word. “I’ve never met her like.”

  “But there is a problem,” Lilastien offered. “Otherwise, you’d be discussing her hips and her breasts and —”

  “I said she was comely,” Tyndal said, defensively. “I’ve known many comely girls. But she’s . . . she’s different.”

  “Oh, shit!” I said, involuntarily, realizing what was occurring. Tyndal looked at me sharply.

  “Oh, that’s not a good sign,” Fondaras called, from behind us. “When a lad describes a girl as different, he’s already made up his mind, in my experience.”

  “What of it?” Tyndal asked, uncomfortably. “But she’s my vassal,” he complained. “My interest smacks of expl
oiting that relationship.”

  “What of it?” Fondaras asked, amused. “Half of the Wilderlords end up marrying into the families of either their vassals or their lieges. The heart knows no rank,” he said, quoting from Ishi’s liturgy.

  “I know,” sighed Tyndal, tiredly. “So does she. But she doesn’t think I’m serious. She thinks I’m looking for a pleasant tumble, not . . . not something more substantial. She sees it as no more than a summer romance and is reluctant to reveal her heart.”

  “Perhaps because you haven’t revealed your own?” I suggested, casually. “A maid is unlikely to risk her heart unless she knows with some certainty the outcome. You make a practice of being playfully aloof,” I pointed out. “Expecting you to depart some poor maiden’s chamber before dawn isn’t an unreasonable assumption. Indeed, I believe it has happened before, in your experience,” I said, pointedly, as we strode down the path after Rolof.

  “Well, certainly, I’ve had a busy life,” Tyndal said, shaking his shaggy head. “It’s been difficult to consider tying myself down to one girl. But she’s . . . she’s different. Only she thinks that I’m going to leave, and leave her behind, and it’s frustrating!”

  “No doubt,” I agreed. “I would be frustrated, too . . . if I were her,” I observed. “What’s a girl to do, when she loves a fickle man with power over her patrimony?”

  “I’m not like that!” Tyndal protested. “Not with her, at any rate. How can I convince her that I’m not going to leave her, if she pledges me her heart?”

  “I don’t think it’s your heart that you’re interested in,” Lilastien said, dryly. “I’m not judging – I’ve made plenty of important decisions based on what my hormones have demanded of me. But I tend to be honest about it, and not clothe it in noble bullshit.”

  “It’s not noble bullshit!” Tyndal shot back, hotly. “I really like her! I just don’t know how to tell her that. How to tell her how I feel about her.”

  “She’s right to be skeptical,” Fondaras agreed. “Your reputation for commitment to a lass is suspect.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t think the news had made it all the way up here!” protested my former apprentice. “I’ve grown quite fond of her. She . . . she makes me laugh. She makes me aroused. She makes me think. But every time I try to tell her that, she makes some joke about me leaving her for the next bint with an enticing set of twins under her surcoat. I’ve considered poetry and song – aren’t the minstrels supposed to have the perfect answers to this?”

  “I’m certain Jannik could come up with something under the circumstances,” I offered.

  “But he’s not here, is he?” demanded Tyndal crossly. “I’ve considered his songs – the ones I know – but they are shockingly spare on the subject.”

  “You’re trying to convince her you won’t leave her?” asked Lilastien, as she sipped from her silver flask. “Your ancestors knew how to do that. Indeed, they had plenty of songs and poems where a lad pleads his case to a lass.”

  “And yet Perwyn sank,” Tyndal said, shaking his head.

  “But they kept reproducing,” Lilastien argued. “Like rabbits. Going from a population of two hundred thousand to one of over thirty million in just a few scant centuries?” she scoffed. “Believe me, your ancestors knew the secrets to breeding. Even the subtle bits,” she declared. “Indeed, sex might be humanity’s strongest magic.”

  “Well, what would one of my vaunted ancestors say to her, in my situation?” demanded Tyndal.

  “You almost sound as if you’re serious about this,” I observed.

  “Of course I am serious!” Tyndal nearly snarled. “I like the girl. She likes me, I think. She just thinks that I’m insincere.”

  Lilastien regarded Tyndal thoughtfully. “You’re serious about this?” she asked, skeptically.

  “I want her to have babies with me,” my former apprentice assured her, reluctantly and embarrassed. “It sounds crazy, but . . . “

  “It might be the sanest thing you’ve ever said,” the Sorceress of Sartha Wood acknowledged. “You’re serious about this girl?” she prompted again. “I don’t want to give you the answers unless you’re certain.”

  “She makes me laugh,” Tyndal said, his shoulders sagging. “What more can I ask for?”

  “Indeed,” Lilastien nodded sagely. “Then listen to the ancient wisdom,” she smirked. “From one of your people’s greatest poets. Tell her . . . tell her that you’re no stranger to love, and that you know the rules. So does she, theoretically. Let her know that she won’t hear this from some other suitor.”

  “This wisdom of the ancients? I’m listening,” Tyndal nodded enthusiastically.

  “Tell her that you’re committed to her,” Lilastien urged. “Tell her you’re never going to give her up,” she suggested. “Tell her you’re never going to let her down. Tell her you’re never going to run around and desert her. Tell her you’re never going to make her cry, that you’ll never say goodbye, never tell her a lie and hurt her,” she declared.

  “That’s . . . that’s surprisingly helpful,” Tyndal admitted. “She might believe that.”

  “Mayhap,” conceded Fondaras. “I’ve heard worse advice in matters of the heart. No maiden wants to love a man whose eyes might be drawn elsewhere.”

  “It’s not really his eyes I think she’s concerned with,” Lilastien shrugged. “But if he pledges his troth thusly, I’m hopeful that he will get the response that he desires. If he is sincere.”

  “I am nothing if not sincere,” boasted Tyndal.

  “Of that I have no doubt,” Fondaras agreed. I could only guess at what he had left unspoken.

  “Tyndal?” I asked. “Are you sure about this?”

  “I’ve never been more certain,” he agreed, resolutely. “I think. Those words are the sort that resonate across the ages. She has to believe them!”

  “No, she doesn’t,” sighed Lilastien, in a quieter tone. “But she might. Many have. Your women are willing to believe just about anything, if properly delivered. Perhaps not to their credit or their benefit, but they do.”

  “I’m just shocked that he’s considering any girl a permanent match,” I confided in her. “And to an un-Talented Wilderlord girl, at that. He built a temple to Ishi in Callierd, just to improve his courting opportunities. Yet he falls for the Wilderlord girl.”

  “I’m just shocked that I may have just released a curse on the world that was thought safely buried for six centuries,” Lilastien frowned.

  “Those words have that much effect?” I asked, surprised.

  “Minalan, you have no idea,” she assured. “I can’t believe I just did that. I feel so ashamed.”

  The path seemed to go on for quite some time until, suddenly, we passed yet one more stand of trees . . . and we were suddenly standing on the shores of a lake.

  It was a beautiful lake. It lacked the steaming mists of the Hot Lake, or the well-cultivated shores and beautiful black beaches of Baelor Lake, but its water was the deepest blue of the three. The shore around it was lush with growth and dotted with beaches. And in the distance, against the horizon of the valley wall, stood an island comprised of a giant slab of rock, surmounted by a patch of forest on its summit. There were other patches wherever soil had been able to gather. It rose at least five hundred feet above the lake’s surface and cast a beautiful reflection into the waters below.

  “Dragon Island,” Rolof pronounced. “Also known as the Western Jevolar to the magi, or Kalmicathal to the Alka Alon, and Ingus Burir by the Kilnusk Alon, and cashishesscala to the Lizard Men. They’ve built a little shrine on the beach closest to their territory, devoted to Avius. They think she’s a god. She finds that amusing,” he added with a chuckle. “But out of respect she’s decided not to eat them.”

  “Any way we could arrange a deal like that?” Ormar asked, frowning. “I’m not usually religious, but . . .”

  “Avius would not attack any of our settlements if she wasn’t provoked,” Rolof assured. “Bes
ides, she would have to eat the lot of us just for one meal. Usually one stora is enough for her. And she only feeds ever ten days or so,” he informed us.

  “But the reptoids consider her a god?” Lilastien asked, intrigued.

  “Since she came here, yes,” Rolof agreed, leading us along the lakeshore, northeast. “She’ll even communicate with them, sometimes. But she says they’re stupid. She prefers our conversation to our flesh.”

  “How does she feel about the gurvani?” Tyndal asked, curious. “because there are a couple of score of them wandering around Anghysbel right now.”

  Rolof stopped. “She loathes them. They put her in chains and helped coerce her into battle. She felt the same way about the Alka Alon, too, until she met Ameras. She explained the difference between the Enshadowed and the other Alka Alon to her. Avius was quite understanding once she knew about it. There are apparently bad dragons, too,” he added, and then continued walking. “It’s not far, now. I smell a cookfire. I think Ameras is at home.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The Lost Scion of the Aronin

  I recall beautiful Ameras from our one brief meeting in Boval Vale, so very long ago. As a boy I had never seen a woman so gorgeous and serene. The lady I met today seems nothing like her, alas. She has fallen in her estate and the jevolar has taken its toll. She resembles more the ‘crazy pixie girl’ my good friend Lord Kanset described meeting a few years ago than the tranquil forest princess I once met. It saddens me to see her so.

  from the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,

  Recorded by Tyndal of Callierd

  The lake encampment was even more primitive than the first camp we encountered, but it made up for that in the beautiful scenery. It was set between two massive rocks that – I assumed – had been blasted away from the jevolar during that ancient impact and had come to rest just above the waterline. Or the waterline eventually decided to position itself below the rocks – I was a bit unclear on the details. They were both tilted at an angle to each other, and the space betwixt them was wide enough to permit a small camp.