“You should have.” Themo lunged again. Matteo ducked under the attack and came up hard, knocking the sword aside with his blade and following with a punch just below the ribcage. Themo folded with a resounding “Oof!”
“Good one,” he congratulated in strangled tones.
Matteo used the brief respite to climb out of the pond. He lunged suddenly, his sword diving low. The big jordain leaped over the blade and stepped back. His sword traced an intricate, circular pattern, a mixture of challenge and bravado.
On Themo came, his weapon leaping and flashing. With each blow, his grin broadened. His dark eyes sparkled with reborn joy as Matteo met each attack and responded in kind.
After many moments they fell apart, gasping for air.
“I won,” Themo said in a wondering tone.
Though the match was a draw, Matteo did not disagree. What Themo had lost was his once again. Matteo made his farewells and spoke a few placating words to the thin-lipped greenmages who had gathered to observe the mock battle. As he left, he heard Themo’s teasing responses to his healer’s scolding, words that quickly drew the heat from her words. The last thing he heard was the greenmage’s laughter, sounding surprised and pleased and entirely female.
Matteo chuckled, pleased that Themo could indulge his non-jordaini inclinations. He would not be the least surprised if the big man headed to the port city of Khaerbaal at first opportunity to renew his acquaintance with a certain good-natured barmaid.
His smile faded quickly. Tzigone, the friend who needed him most, would not be so easily rescued.
Never had Tzigone been so weary. Gasping for breath, she sank to the ground, not caring about the sodden moss, not feeling the chill.
They had come again, the dark fairies. This time they had pulled from her the memory of the first few years of her life, after her mother had been captured and she had been a child alone. For years Tzigone had sought to recover these memories, thinking to find in them the key to who she was. Now she was grateful for the darkness that had shrouded them for so long.
Tzigone flopped onto her back, willing herself to breathe slowly and deeply. She had run for what might have been hours, fleeing from one terrifying memory only to find herself enmeshed in another. She might be running still, but her Unseelie tormenters had released her. If they ran her until her heart burst, they would have no more pleasure from her.
Seeking rest and escape, she traveled deep into her memory—past the traumas of a street child, past the time spent as daughter of a fugitive wizard. The secrets of her own life had been bared. If there was answer for her, a way out of this endless prison, it was not in her lifetime, but her mother’s …
It was twilight, Keturah’s favorite time, and the three young wizards with her seemed as happy as she to be out under the open sky. The four of them stood on the flat roof of the guesthouse, watching as the setting sun turned the storm clouds over Lake Halruaa into a dragon’s hoard of shining gold and ruby and amethyst. Behind them loomed Keturah’s tower, its green-veined marble gleaming in the fading light.
Keturah watched as the apprentices practiced a simple spell of summoning. Earlier that day, she had taught them to call the bats that emerged with the coming of night—tiny, chameleon bats that changed color as they wheeled against the sunset clouds.
The youngest apprentice, a girl not yet in adolescent bloom, had donned gloves of bright pink silk. A bat landed on her hand, hanging from her finger like an endearingly ugly fuchsia blossom. The girl’s laughter was happy and excited—childhood’s magic blended with that of her emerging Art Keturah chuckled in sympathy.
A bell tolled from the garden below, indicating a visitor too important to ignore. Keturah signaled the students to continue and headed for the stairs to answer the summons.
Her visitor was an elf, an exceedingly well-favored male with coppery skin and a strikingly handsome face. But for his traditional white garments and the bright blue, green, and yellow enameling on his medallion, he might have been mistaken for either a warrior or a professional male courtier. Keturah knew him by name and by sight, as did most of Halarahh society. King Zalathorm might be reclusive, but the same could not be said of his queen. Fiordella enjoyed grand fetes and festivals, and she was frequently seen in the company of Zephyr, her favorite counselor.
Keturah put the gossip firmly out of mind and exchanged the expected pleasantries. As soon as she could do so without offending proprieties, she asked what service she could render her queen.
“No more than is required of all wizards,” Zephyr observed sternly. “You will follow Halruaa’s laws.”
Keturah blinked. “How have I failed?”
“You are not yet wed.”
“That is so,” she said cautiously, “but I am young, and in no great hurry.”
“You are six and twenty,” he pointed out. “Wizards are required to marry before the age of five and twenty.”
“I have never heard of that law,” she protested.
“Most wizards are early wed, so it is seldom necessary to evoke this law. But a law it is, my lady, and you cannot flout it”
“I suppose not,” she said, and sighed. “I will consult a matchmaker before moondark.”
“There is no need. The match has already been made.”
Keturah’s heart seemed to take flight, only to reach the end of its tether and thump painfully back into place. “It is the woman’s prerogative to initiate the match!”
“There are exceptions,” he pointed out. “From time to time, it is determined that one wizard’s lineage is exceptionally well suited to that of another.”
“Determined? By whom?”
“The match was submitted to the Council of Elders and approved.”
Ordinarily, suggested matches could be appealed, but if matters had gone that far, there was no undoing them.
“Who was chosen for me?” she said resignedly.
“Dhamari Exchelsor.”
Disbelief swept through her like an icy wind. “That is not possible! He was my apprentice. It would be unseemly.”
“He left your tower nearly a year ago,” the elven jordain pointed out. “His current master deems him ready to test for the rank of journeyman wizard, generalist school. His specialty is the crafting of potions. He will not require your tutelage in the Art of evocation.”
Keturah took a long, steadying breath. “When two wizards matched for marriage are already acquainted, it is custom to consider the nature of their feelings. Never did anything pass between us that should lead to marriage!”
“He has already agreed. The match is made and approved. It is done but for the wedding feast, which I understand is set for this very night.” The jordain cocked his head and considered the clatter approaching Keturah’s gate. “That would be the Exchelsor family. As mistress of this tower, should you not greet them?”
Moving in a daze, Keturah went out into the courtyard. Dhamari Exchelsor entered the garden, his expression strangely shy. Keturah took a small amount of comfort from this. If she was to be overwhelmed by events far above her control, at least she was not alone.
Dhamari was closely followed by his family and their retinue. They had a priest of Mystra in tow and servants bearing trays upon which were arranged the traditional marriage items: a silver chalice, a scroll, a small, jeweled knife. One of the servants held a robe of crimson silk that was richly embroidered and encrusted with gems. This she held out to Keturah, clucking indignantly over the woman’s simple tunic and bare legs.
“Now?” Keturah murmured, sending a look of appeal toward the queen’s counselor.
Zephyr shrugged. “Why wait? The matter is settled.”
Moving like one in a dream, Keturah allowed the servant to help her into the robe, to tie the marriage cord around her waist.
She echoed the spells of binding and drank from the chalice when it was given her. When they handed her the ceremonial knife and pushed back the sleeve of her robe to bare her wrist, she stood for a mo
ment studying the pulsing life beneath her skin.
As if he feared what she might do, the priest quickly took back the knife and handed it to Dhamari. He nicked Keturah’s wrist, then his own. They pressed them together, a symbol of bloodlines mixed.
When at last the ceremony was over, the Exchelsor clan erupted into loud celebration. Dhamari winced and sent Keturah a shy, rueful smile.
“You look as overwhelmed as I feel, my lady. If you desire a few moments’ privacy to catch your breath, I will try to keep the revelers away.”
She nodded, grateful for his understanding, and slipped off in search of a quiet corner of the garden.
Dhamari watched her go, then sought out the queen’s jordain. He found the elf lingering by the front gate, watching the celebration with narrowed eyes.
“The thing is done and well done,” he said.
“Is it?” Zephyr countered. “You came here well before the appointed hour, before Keturah learned the reason for this match. By law, she must be told.”
“She will be, when the time is right. Leave it in my hands.”
When the jordain hesitated, Dhamari pressed a small, coin-filled bag into his hand. “Our lady has no need of wealth. She is enriched by your faithful service,” he said meaningfully.
“And the potions?”
“I am qualified to administer them.” He paused for a wistful smile. “You have not seen the wizard Keturah in a temper. It would be best if she hears the full story from my lips and in private.”
“As you say.” Zephyr handed Dhamari a wooden box.
Dhamari opened the box and took from it one of many tiny vials. He emptied the potion into the contents of a gem-encrusted wine cup. “We will begin this very night,” he assured the jordain. “You may tell your lady that all will go as planned.”
An odd little smile touched the elf’s face. “She will be gratified to hear this, I’m sure.”
“And please, convey my regards and thanks to the queen.”
That strange, secretive smile flickered again. “I will do that, as well,” Zephyr agreed, “although at a somewhat later time.”
He punctuated this cryptic remark with a proper jordaini bow, then he turned and disappeared into the night with disconcerting elven grace. Dhamari shrugged and took a small packet from a hidden pocket of his tunic. He ripped off a corner and spilled the powder into the wine. For a moment the liquid fizzled and bubbled, seething as it turned a hundred shades of crimson and purple and green. Then, suddenly, it settled back into the sedate, aged gold of fine haerlu wine. Dhamari smiled with satisfaction and went in search of his bride …
Fury, pure and searing, tore Tzigone from the past and jolted her back to herself. Around her lingered the faint shadows of the green tower, and the garden full of ghostly revelers. Tzigone’s eyes sought her mother among the shadows.
“She didn’t know,” the girl murmured, thinking of the potions which had shaped both her mother’s destiny and her own. “That son of a scorpion poisoned her!”
Fury filled her, focused her. Tzigone swiftly fell back into her vision of the past …
Keturah’s respite was short-lived. A member of the Exchelsor family, a stout, matronly woman whose name Keturah had never heard spoken, pounced on her like an overweight tabby and dragged her into the midst of the feasting. The bride stood with her back to the garden wall, an untouched plate of food in one hand, watching the celebration with the bewildered detachment of an ancient, fading wraith spying on the living. By wind and word, she could not understand why these strangers were so pleased!
Her new-made husband came toward her, a wine goblet cradled in both hands. There was a strange glint in his eyes that made her skin crawl. Keturah was no stranger to the ways of men, and she knew full well the response her face and form evoked. She took the cup from him and managed a single sip. Her stomach roiled in protest, and she turned away so that he could not read her revulsion.
Dhamari’s mother chose this moment to bustle over. Dressed in cloth-of-silver, a reminder to all of her wealth in electrum mines, she rustled like aspen leaves in a gale.
“Where is your steward, daughter? There are arrangements to be made and apprentices to dismiss.”
“Dismiss my apprentices?” echoed Keturah blankly. “Whatever for?”
The woman tittered. “You must have drunk deeply if you’ve forgotten the moon of seclusion! Lady Mystra grant, you will soon thereafter devote yourself to a mother’s duties. There will be no time for apprentices for years to come.”
Ambition gleamed bright in the woman’s eyes, shedding light on the family’s collective glee.
The Exchelsor family had wealth in great abundance, and they did not hesitate to use it to get what they wanted. They’d given her this very tower as Dhamari’s apprentice fee. Their son was accounted a wizard, but his talents were small, and he would never be famed for his mastery of Art. But if he wed a wizard of power and growing acclaim, he might sire a child who could do what he could not. With Keturah’s help, Exchelsor could be known as a wizard’s lineage. In Halruaa, that was the path to nobility.
But if her precipitous marriage had no more basis than a merchant family’s ambition, why had the Council approved it? Keturah did not believe the Elders could be swayed by wealth alone. What hidden gift did Dhamari possess that might make a child of their mingled blood so desirable? What could possibly have brought this matter to the interest of Queen Fiordella?
She looked around for Zephyr, but the elven jordain was not to be found.
“Drink,” Dhamari urged softly, nodding at the cup Keturah clenched. “I put a potion into it to help you sleep. When morning comes, we will begin to make sense of this.”
Because his words so closely echoed her own thoughts, Keturah lifted the jeweled cup to her lips. As Dhamari promised, each sip brought her deeper into blessed lethargy. She was dimly aware of the increasingly raucous wedding feast, and of the rising moon, and of her guests’ snickering jests as Dhamari caught her when she swayed and carried her into the tower.
Then Dhamari was gone, and there was only the young apprentice, her childish face worried and perplexed as she helped Keturah out of her wedding robe and into her solitary bed.
Maybe Dhamari was right, Keturah thought as she drifted into slumber. Perhaps with the coming of dawn, all of this would start to become clear.…
The eerie song of the dark fairies pulled Tzigone away from the memory, drawing her back into the frenzied terror she’d so recently escaped.
She pressed both hands to her throbbing temples. “These things don’t know when to quit,” she murmured. With difficulty, she brought to mind an illusion.
The faint glow of firelight brightened the mist, revealing a cozy tavern bedchamber and two inhabitants—a lad dressed in a farmer’s clothes and a red-haired woman clad in flowing layers of black silk. She drifted closer and smiled at her suitor. Fangs, long and lethal, gleamed in the firelight. The boy backed away, tripped over a stool, and crab-walked frantically toward the door. Faster than thought—as fast as the dark fairies—the beautiful vampire moved to bar the way. Her delicate hands seized her prey and jerked him upright. For a long moment she held him trapped, savoring his terror. Then she lowered her head and fed. After a few brief moments, she tossed him aside. He fell to the floor, drained and still.
“Blood is a pale thing next to the wine of fear,” she whispered.
The illusion faded away, and with it, the dark fairies’ tormenting song.
A smile ghosted across Tzigone’s face. “The Unseelie have their faults, but no one can claim they can’t take a hint,” she grunted, and then sank back into her borrowed memories …
Mist swirled, then parted to reveal Keturah standing on a narrow balcony encircling her tower, a private place sheltered from the intense heat by the shade of the onion dome just above and shielded from curious eyes by the soaring height of the tower. Here she came often to walk alone.
A year and more had passed since Ketur
ah’s strange wedding. She no longer took apprentices, for reasons she feared to admit even to herself. Her most frequent companions were the creatures that came to her call.
The wizard propped her elbows on the wall and watched as a starsnake glided by on iridescent wings, looking like ropes of jewels against the sapphire sky. She began to sing, and her voice was strong and sure as it rose into the wind.
The creature winged past, heedless of her call.
Keturah’s song died abruptly. She buried her face in her hands and drew a long, shuddering breath. This was not the first time that her magic had failed her. Over the past few moons, it had been growing increasingly unreliable.
For some reason she had kept these small failures from Dhamari. This was not a difficult thing to do. He spent most of his time working alone. Potions fascinated him, and he was absorbed with the creation of a spellbook that would ensure the fame of the Exchelsor wizards. Oddly enough, since their wedding he had done nothing else that might establish his lineage and legacy.
Their first days of marriage, the traditional moon in seclusion, had been a puzzlement to Keturah. By day they had walked on the shore, calling creatures of the sea and watching them splash and play in the cresting waves offshore. She had shown Dhamari the spells for summoning giant squid and teasing from them sprays of sepia that could be captured and used as a component for wizard’s ink. They had spoken with selkies, watched the dolphins at play, but it seemed that they had once again become mistress and apprentice. Dhamari was polite, respectful, detached. He left her at the door to her bedchamber each night and returned to his studies.
This pattern continued after their return to Halarahh and to Keturah’s tower. Dhamari was unfailingly courteous. They ate together each evening, and he poured exquisite wine from the Exchelsor cellars and engaged her in learned conversation. Their association was not altogether unpleasant, but neither was it a marriage. It was not even a friendship, and Keturah could not bring herself to confide to this stranger her concern over her waning power.
The Wizardwar Page 8
