Wizard of the Grove

by Tanya Huff

  “Well?” demanded Riven when he heard the door close. “What does she have to say?”

  “She, milord?”

  “The wizard. I was told you have a message from the wizard.”

  “I do, milord.” He wet his lips again. “But from the other wizard.”

  “The other wizard?” Riven repeated. “What the . . .” And then he understood.

  “Wait, milord. Before you call your guards, you should listen to what he has to say.”

  Riven had never liked being told what he should do and he had come to like it even less during the short time he had been duke, for there were so many things a duke should do, but some note of power in the Scholar’s thin voice stopped the call to his guards.

  “I will not listen to treason,” he protested weakly.

  “Milord, the Great Kraydak does not counsel treason. He asks only that you continue to do what you have been doing.”

  “I haven’t done anything.”

  “Milord understands exactly. The Great Kraydak asks only that you continue to do nothing. He agrees wholeheartedly with your decision.”

  It was nice to be agreed with for a change.

  “After all, who is this woman that your people should die for her?”

  Riven had often wondered that himself.

  “She is responsible for the death of your family.”

  “Kraydak crushed the palace,” Riven was forced to admit.

  “But only to get to her,” the Scholar said soothingly. “Does that not make her responsible?”

  As Riven had said as much himself, he had to agree with the man.

  “And so, why should you defend the woman who killed your family?” the Scholar continued reasonably. “This is a battle of wizards. Let the wizards fight.”

  Let the wizards fight. Riven had said that all along. “My people may force me to sound the Horn and ride to battle.”

  “Would they have forced your late father?”

  No, they wouldn’t have. Riven couldn’t imagine the old duke being forced to do anything he didn’t want to. “No,” he said and his fingers curled into fists.

  “Are you not the man your father was?”

  “Of course I am!” Riven stepped forward, two bright spots of color on his cheeks. “What are you getting at?”

  “Only that I had not thought you a worse duke than your father, milord.”

  “I’m not a worse duke!”

  “Then prove it.” The high-pitched voice of the Scholar had suddenly turned very cold. Caught up in his own heat, Riven didn’t notice.

  “How?”

  “Enforce your will. You do not want to fight, so keep Riven Province from riding to war. Can you do that?” The voice was colder still and a strange light surfaced in the murky depths of the Scholar’s eyes.

  “Of course I can. I’m every bit as much the duke as my father was.”

  “Of course you are. And can you convince your people to resume trade with Melac?”

  “As you say, they’re my people. If I tell them to resume trade with Melac, they, will.”

  “And merchants will not be killed as they cross through Riven Pass?”

  “You have my word.”

  “Very good.” He was once again an ugly little Scholar with no sign he had been anything else. “You had better get some rest, milord, you look tired.”

  “Yes.” Riven passed a trembling hand over his eyes. All of a sudden, a dull throbbing had begun behind each temple. “I’d better get some rest.”

  Some hours later, after falling immediately into a deep sleep the moment his head hit the pillow, the young duke was shaken roughly awake.

  “Stop it,” he muttered sleepily. “Go away.”

  The shaking continued, so, with a sigh, he rolled over. It was very dark in his room, but as his eyes grew accustomed to the lack of light he could make out two figures standing beside his bed.

  “Well?” he asked petulantly, after a few moments of mutual staring.

  The taller figure leaned over, a menacing shadow in full battle armor. “I’d like to have some words with you, my son.”

  “Father?” Riven clutched the blankets so tightly his fingers went white. “But you’re with Lord Death!”

  “And just who do you think this is?” asked the old duke, indicating the pleasant and disturbingly familiar looking young man standing beside him.

  “Lord Death?” Riven’s voice cracked on the second word.

  The pleasant looking young man smiled—his teeth were very even and very white—and then turned to the old duke. “You have two minutes only,” he said, and politely moved away.

  “It’s all the time I’ll need,” snarled the old duke glaring down at his son, “to deal with this traitor.”

  “But, Father, I . . .”

  “Traitor to your country! Traitor to your name!”

  “But I haven’t done anything!” Clutching the blankets, he moved back against the headboard. He had seen this man buried his own height down in the body of the Mother. His heart slammed against his ribs and the blood pounded in his ears . . . he tried to swallow but the muscles refused to obey.

  “And why not? The War Horn has been sent and all you can say is, ‘I haven’t done anything.’ That much is obvious.”

  “She killed you!”

  “No one killed me. I died. But Kraydak killed your mother and don’t you ever forget that.”

  “This is a wizards’ war!” Even she had said that. What could mere mortals do in a wizards’ war? Better to keep his people here, safe, so no more would die.

  “You want to be Kraydak’s bond boy and watch your people go to feed his demons? Is that it?”

  “No, I . . .” Riven’s brow creased and he tried to remember just what the little Scholar had said.

  “Well, that’s what you’ve just agreed to.” The old duke sighed. “If I’d known you were going to make such a mess of things, maybe I’d have tried harder to stay alive.”

  “It wouldn’t have done any good,” murmured a soft voice from the shadows. Both Rivens ignored it.

  “You left me alone.” The young man’s voice was almost a wail. Fear faded beside the pain. Once again, he saw the healer gently closing his father’s eyes. “He chose, milord,” she said. “I could not save him.”

  “So that’s it. Maybe I thought you were old enough to take care of yourself. I guess I was wrong.”

  “You loved Mother and Maia more than you loved me! You died and left me alone!”

  The dead man sighed again and spread his hands, as close to a helpless gesture as his son had ever seen him make. “Your mother was a part of me, I’d have been only half alive without her.”

  They stared at each other for a moment, the new duke and the old, both knowing that was as close to an apology as was likely to be spoken.

  “And you aren’t exactly alone, are you?” The steel was back in the old duke’s voice. “You’re responsible for an entire province. People depend on you.”

  “It’s not the same.” Riven’s chin came up in a belligerent way that made him look very much like his sire.

  “No, it isn’t. Tough. You’ve a job to do; it was mine and now it’s yours. I suggest you do it and stop crying over things that can’t be changed.”

  “Time.” Lord Death stepped forward.

  “Just one more thing, milord.” With a frown that held more weariness than anger, the old duke drew back his arm and struck his son hard across the face.

  The force of the blow flung Riven almost out of bed and stars exploded behind his eyes. It took him a minute to realize that the continuing light was not inside his head. He opened his eyes and sat up.

  The sun shone through and around the green brocade that covered the windows; morning. The room could not have been dark only seconds before. His
father and Lord Death had not come to him in the night. It had been a dream, vivid and disturbing, but only a dream.

  He lay back against his pillow as his valet came into the room and flung open the curtains. Golden light poured through the tiny panes of leaded glass, banishing shadows and gilding fear.

  “A beautiful day today, milord. There’s a fog on the heights, but it should burn off in a couple of hours.” The valet turned to face the bed. “And what . . . milord!”

  “What is it?” Riven inspected his immediate surroundings. Everything seemed to be in place. He could see no reason for the other man’s shocked exclamation.

  The valet silently handed him a mirror.

  Across his cheek, in the exact shape of his father’s hand, was a massive purple and green bruise.

  * * *

  “The pass has been filled?”

  “We’ve just finished it, sir, but I still don’t understand why we don’t let the Melacians into the pass where we could ambush them.”

  “I gave my word they wouldn’t be killed in the pass.” Riven smiled. “I gave no word that the pass would still be there when they came to use it.” His horse fidgeted under him and he let it dance about before bringing it under control. “You’re sure the Scholar sent no messages before he was killed?”

  “None that we were aware of. If he used magical means . . .”

  “No matter,” Riven shrugged. “Kraydak will know of our plans soon enough.”

  “Then why not sound the Horn?”

  “Why make it easy for him? You’d better get back to your men, we’ll be leaving soon.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Riven watched his captain ride away and decided to stay a moment longer on the hill overlooking Riven’s Seat. A warm breeze blew slowly along the side of the mountain and it carried with it all the smells he wanted to remember when he was in the midst of battle.

  “He loved you very much.”

  Riven glanced down at the pleasant looking young man—who was still disturbingly familiar. No need to ask who Lord Death referred to. “He has a funny way of showing it.” The bruise had faded a little, but the teeth on that side still ached when he chewed.

  “You needed to have some sense knocked into you.” Lord Death waved a white hand at the army forming in the valley below. “It seems to have worked.”

  “Why did you let him come back?”

  “Why not? You couldn’t possibly understand my motives, Mortal, so you needn’t try.”

  “For whatever reason then, thank you.”

  Lord Death smiled. And wasn’t there.

  Not until much later did Riven realize that Lord Death bore a startling resemblance to his mother.

  FOURTEEN

  The crescent moon was barely visible over the tops of the trees, campfires had died to embers and, with the exception of the sentries patrolling the perimeters of the camp and the surgical pavilion, regrettably never quiet, the army of Ardhan slept. No one saw the manshaped shadow slipping from shelter to shelter. Even the Duke of Belkar’s guard failed to see it as it passed almost close enough to touch. What was one more shadow amongst the shadows of the night. Unnoticed, the intruder moved around to the back of Belkar’s tent.

  After checking that he remained unobserved, the shadow slipped a knife from his sleeve, the blade carefully blackened to prevent a stray bit of light from giving him away. Slowly, quietly, he slit the canvas wall and then slid through the hole. Only a thin black line showed he had been there at all.

  It was dark, but the shadow deftly threaded his way around the furniture and the scattered pieces of armor. He made his way without incident to the center of the tent where, by the dividing wall, there was a bed.

  The occupant of the bed stirred, rolled over on his back, and began to snore. Loudly.

  The shadow moved silently forward. He bent over, but it was too dark to see the features of the sleeper. Not that it mattered, the snoring with its particular cadence and its volume said, “Here lies the Duke of Belkar” as clearly as if it were full daylight.

  Stepping back a pace, the shadow raised his knife and struck. A moist thud cut the snores off abruptly.

  The shadow turned, arms spread wide as if to embrace someone or something. Then, struck by a brilliant beam of silver light, Lapus fell to his knees.

  “No, not Kraydak,” Crystal told him sadly. “Nor will it be. He lied when he said there would be a way out.”

  Lapus could barely see the young wizard through eyes squinted shut against the glare, but he sensed she wasn’t alone. Behind her, where the light was not so bright stood . . . the Duke of Belkar? He twisted around until he could see the bed. Empty; except for his knife which had cut right through the thin mattress.

  “Illusion,” he said bitterly. “Lies.”

  “Not the first. All Kraydak offered you was more of the same; illusions and lies.”

  “No!” Lapus got to his feet. Two guards stepped forward, but Crystal waved them back. “He showed me. It was real!”

  “What he offered may have been real, but he would never have given it to you. I suspect that even had you succeeded tonight he would’ve ignored you just as he’s doing now.”

  “No,” Lapus repeated, burying his head in his hands and collapsing back on the bed. “It couldn’t have been a lie.” Then his head lifted and his eyes opened wide, pupils dilated against the light. “He showed me Truth!” Suddenly, he clutched at his knife and dove across the tent.

  He was on them so fast that Crystal had no time to react. Already upset by the confirmation of Lapus as Kraydak’s tool, the attack shocked her into immobility. Had she been the Scholar’s target, Kraydak would have won in that instant, but Lapus pushed her aside and headed straight for the duke. Where he was met by a guard. And a sword.

  He peered down at the steel that stuck out of his chest and gave a soft sigh as it slid free. The knife dropped from nerveless fingers and with the other hand he touched the blood flowing from the wound—gently, as if afraid to disturb the flow.

  “I wish,” he said tenderly, staring up at Crystal with a hopeless desperation, “we could have . . .” And then he died.

  Crystal knelt beside him, closed his eyes, and kissed him tightly on the forehead. Then she stood aside so the guards could remove the body.

  “Why did he do it?” asked Belkar shaking his head as they carried Lapus from the tent. He had liked the Scholar, enjoyed arguing with him, respected his mind. He had hoped that Crystal’s suspicions were unfounded. “What could Kraydak have shown him?”

  “Just what Lapus said he did, I expect. Truth. Lapus told me once that Truth was the only master.” Her hands stroked up and down her arms as if afraid to be still. “Kraydak took Lapus to the top of the tallest mountain and offered him all the knowledge of the world.”

  “Eh?” The duke was puzzled. “What mountain? Where?”

  The tent flap had barely closed behind the guards and their burden when it opened to admit Mikhail. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder—he must have passed the body on its way out—raised an eyebrow and asked, “Lapus?”

  Crystal nodded.

  “What about the others?” Belkar demanded.

  “Thanks to Crystal, we got them all. The dukes are safe.”

  “And the Scholars?” Crystal asked, although she knew the answer.

  “Child,” said Mikhail gently, enclosing her shoulder in a massive hand, “they were out to do murder for a man who wants to put the entire country to the sword.” He moved his finger under her chin and lifted her head so she was forced to look at him. Her face was very pale and her eyes were dim. “You said yourself that once Kraydak held a mind the only sure release was death. They had to die. We had no choice.”

  Crystal scuffed her foot by the damp, red stain on Belkar’s carpet. This was another choice that Kraydak had taken from them. She felt a
s though iron bands had been riveted about her chest. “He was my friend.”

  “And mine,” said Belkar.

  “We’ve all lost friends,” Mikhail reminded her and then realized that, until this moment, Crystal had not. Lapus and young Bryon were the only two friends she had. Her power, her rank, and her beauty had kept other friendships from developing. He opened his arms and offered a father’s comfort if the wizard cared to take it.

  The wizard cared to, very much. With a strangled sob, Crystal hid in his embrace, and cried for Lapus, for all the others, and, just a little, for herself.

  “What of our lads?” asked Belkar.

  “Only one of them was hit, but he’s pretty bad. The knife went up under his ribs. I doubt he’ll make it.”

  Crystal pushed herself away from Mikhail’s chest, wiping her cheeks dry with the flat of her hand. This was how she could erase the memory of Lapus lying dead at her feet. “I can save him,” she said, giving one final sniff, and starting for the door.

  “No.” Mikhail swung around and blocked her way. “Kraydak must know his plan failed and may try something else tonight. You have to be ready. Remember what happened last time.”

  She rubbed her nose across her sleeve, looking absurdly young as she did so, and remembered.

  * * *

  After the first meeting between the Melac and the Ardhan armies—in which Kraydak had sent out an innocuous probe and Crystal had smashed it back at him with a strength that surprised them both—Crystal had gone to the surgical pavilion to help. The area was already protected from infections by a long and complicated weaving of power, but she wanted to do more. The surgeons directed her to a young man with a deep sword slash across the belly. His cut and torn guts were bulging from the wound, masking the rest of the internal damages. The surgeons wondered why he was still alive and they doubted he could hold on much longer.

  Feeling slightly sick at the sight and the smell, Crystal placed her hands lightly on the soldier’s body and began to hum. A green flame grew in her eyes, spilled over and ran down her arms into the boy on the stretcher. Before the astonished eyes of the surgeons and those patients near enough to see, the edges of the wound began to glow and close. The bulging mass of intestine, now miraculously clean and whole, tucked itself back where it belonged. Muscle fibers reached across the gap left by the sword and quickly wove the muscle back into one piece. The edges of the skin flowed smoothly together, leaving no scar or any other sign there had ever been a wound.