The Simbul's gift зк-6

by Lynn Abbey

  "I thought you were the prince, Poppa. I didn't guess you were like her grandfather."

  "Exactly like her grandfather, Mimuay. I killed her grandfather in a duel two years before you were born. Since that night I have been the Zulkir of Enchantment."

  Lauzoril hadn't meant to be cruel, not to his daughter nor to the child-woman he found locked away here on the Thazalhar estate, surrounded by tapestries and storybooks. Wenne believed she was a princess and he… he was the image of the prince she'd been promised. For a year the young zulkir indulged her fantasies; after that, it was too late.

  "Do you love her, Poppa? Do you love any of us?"

  "Yes," he answered simply. The Zulkir of Enchantment was also the Zulkir of Charm: a consummate liar with the power to make any child believe that the sun rose in the west. He chose, in the end, to tell the truth. "Wenne is the heart of my home, the mother of you and Nyasia-whom I do love without reservation, even when I shouldn't. But no, Mimuay, I do not love your mother, not as a man wants to love his wife. When you're older, you'll understand."

  Mimuay sniffed up her tears and rose to her feet. "It's magic, isn't it, that makes her the way she is, like a child who never grew up? Magic that her grandfather put on her?"

  "The old zulkir thought he could keep her safe if he enchanted her mind so she could never learn magic-never learn anything at all except her embroidery. She wouldn't become a rival to him or a hostage to others."

  "When will you put that magic on me, Poppa?"

  They stared at each other. Lauzoril saw his own death waiting in his beloved daughter's eyes. He should kill her right now. The old zulkir's enchantment wouldn't be enough, hadn't been enough with Wenne. And because he'd raised his daughters with love and kindness-or tried to-he foresaw that Mimuay would come to hate him, come to destroy him when she learned what he did outside Thazalhar.

  The spell was in Lauzoril's mind: a word, a gesture, and his daughter would die instantly. He shook his head. The spell might be there, but the will to use it wasn't. He'd sooner die himself than harm her body or warp her mind.

  "There are spells and magic all around you, to keep you safe, but my magic's never touched you, not even to straighten your crooked front tooth. It never will."

  "Will you teach me, Poppa? Will you share your gift?"

  Lauzoril couldn't refuse. His daughter became a child again, throwing herself at him, wrapping her arms around his chest. He remembered when she had embraced his knees. It hadn't been all that long ago.

  He was a fool, a romantic fool, and she would become his death. But death would come; the new god Kelemvor hadn't decreed any changes. Death should come to everyone, even zulkirs.

  Especially zulkirs.

  So he foresaw that Mimuay would come to hate him, to destroy him. Where was it written that fate was immutable? Szass Tam could destroy them all tomorrow, no matter what a father decided to do tonight. And tonight that father had the leafy smell of his daughter's love surrounding him. The balance pans of his life were level. No father-no man or zulkir-could ask for more.

  12

  The Yuirwood, in Aglarond Sundown, the fifteenth day of Eleasias, The Year of the Banner (1368DR)

  Bro awoke at sundown, thinking it was dawn, thinking he'd gone to sleep with a stomach full of bad dreams. Then his bed bent beneath him, and he realized he wasn't in bed at all, but clinging to a far-too-slender branch. Immediately, he remembered Sulalk and that he was alone. Those grim memories kept their distance, giving him space to remember how he'd wound up in the young branches of a tall tree.

  A very tall tree, once Bro had made the nearly fatal mistake of looking down.

  He clamped his arms tight against the bark, realized he was naked, too, and considered whether it might not be easier if he let himself fall. When a breeze convinced him that he wasn't ready to die, Bro wriggled backward, one rasping branch at a time. The wood beneath him had grown thick enough to support him securely before he'd pieced events together.

  He'd fallen afoul of the seelie. The Simbul's knife had protected him from their nuisance spells while he held it. When he'd finally dropped it, the infuriated creatures had struck hard. Bro blushed thinking of the song he'd sung and the foolish dance, but mostly he remembered Dancer trying to run on a bear's hindquarters. Then they'd turned him into a squirrel-that's how he'd wound up in the tree-and compounded their mischief with a sleep spell.

  But what about Zandilar's Dancer? Bears couldn't climb trees as well as squirrels, but horses couldn't climb down at all. Bro almost cursed the seelie, then, but swallowed the thought. Cha'Tel'Quessir legend whispered of two seelie races, the mischievous ones who made folk act like fools and their dark cousins who'd hound a man to his death. He thought he'd encountered the mischievous race and didn't want to risk attracting the other one with a curse.

  When he'd been a squirrel, it seemed that he'd run forever between the place where the spell struck and the tree. Returned to his natural form, Bro could see the Simbul's boots not more than twenty paces away. His clothes were there, too. By what little he knew of magic, when a wizard transformed a person, his clothes were supposed to get transformed, too. But the Cha'Tel'Quessir elders always said that magic was different in the Yuirwood.

  He shook each garment thoroughly before pulling it on, expecting to find seelie mischief in each sleeve or trouser leg, but they'd left no surprises behind. The cloth, though, remained damp from the afternoon storm. It felt dead and stuck to his skin. He shivered uncontrollably as he laced up the boots-that was mostly hunger.

  It was almost two days since he'd eaten a substantial meal; another two and he'd be starving. He stared at the silver hair tied around his wrist. It had transformed with him. Maybe the Simbul hadn't thought to look in the trees. Maybe she couldn't find that bit of herself when it was lost within squirrel fur.

  Maybe she hadn't come at all.

  Bro could imagine someone leaving soggy boots behind, but the knife was right where he'd dropped it, and he couldn't imagine anyone, even a queen, leaving a good steel blade to rust in the forest. His heart hurt from too much loss, too much disappointment. His arm hurt, too, where the seelie barbs had pierced it, and his thumb was warm to the touch. Pain shot up his forearm to his elbow when he bent it. Poison, Bro reckoned, and hoped it wasn't strong enough to make him sick. Come morning he'd look for a willow tree and make a poultice from its bark.

  Until morning, he'd look for Zandilar's Dancer. In Sulalk, Bro had patiently trained the colt to recognize his name and come when he heard it. Sulalk was another world, a world with pastures, fences and bright orange carrots from Shali's garden to reward the colt when he'd mastered a lesson.

  "Dancer! Dancer, come!"

  Damp leaves swallowed Bro's words. He sounded young, frightened, more apt to attract a bear than a colt. A bear or something worse. Seelie weren't the worst that lived in the Yuirwood. There were wolf packs, panthers, and creatures every bit as magical as the seelie, but a hundred times larger and meaner. Bro didn't think the Simbul's knife would help him against a greenhag, if he met one. The danger was small. The Yuirwood recognized the Cha'Tel'Quessir as rightful guardians, and in turn the trees sheltered the Cha'Tel'Quessir from their enemies.

  The forest should recognize him, despite his woven-cloth farmers' clothing. The Simbul's boots had almost certainly been made by a Cha'Tel'Quessir craftsman. They were soft, yet sturdy; the way his boots hadn't been since Shali led him out of the forest. They belonged in the forest, as he belonged. But just to be sure, Bro reached inside his shirt and pulled out a leather thong, which also had transformed with him when the seelie turned him into a squirrel. Carved beads slid along the leather. Four of them told his story: a son, recognized by his mother's MightyTree kin and his father's GoldenMoss folk, old enough to take part in the men's rituals, but-lacking a clear-stone bead-not yet a man. Bro's fifth and final bead, on the shadow side of GoldenMoss, was dark in the moonlight. His mother's father had given him that bead the day they buried Riz
carn, because the no-father bead had to come from a man, and no men from GoldenMoss had come to bury Rizcarn.

  Bro scarcely knew his father's kin. Rizcarn never spoke of them, except to say that his parents weren't alive and that GoldenMoss was rooted in a distant part of the Yuirwood. Maybe not so distant now, considering that Bro didn't know where he was. He might find his father's tree-family before he found his mother's, but when Bro imagined the Cha'Tel'Quessir, he was looking for familiar faces. When he found MightyTree he'd sit down between his grandparents and tell them what had happened in Sulalk. He'd weep, but he wouldn't be alone.

  They couldn't bury Shali, but they'd bury her beads-Bro slapped the pouch resting against his thigh, assuring himself that the seelie hadn't stolen them. His grandfather would give him a second black bead. He'd be an orphan for the rest of his life, but he wouldn't be alone.

  The tears Bro hadn't shed when he awoke in the tree overwhelmed him, but each time he wept, it hurt a little less because Shali was a little further away. He swiped his eyes on a damp sleeve and called the colt again, wanting a companion more than he worried about predators.

  A crescent moon had risen above the trees. In a clear sky, it shed sufficient light on the forest floor for half-elf eyes to follow a trail, once he dusted off the tracking lessons he'd had from his uncles and cousins. On his hands and knees in the soggy mulch, Bro examined the ground where he'd last seen the colt. His stomach soured when he found the incongruous mating of hooves and claws. At least there was no doubt he'd found the right trail.

  Broken branches and muddy streaks on bare ground marked where Dancer had fallen on his mismatched legs. Bro searched for blood, but every leaf and twig glistened moistly in the moonlight. One place, where the colt seemed to have had trouble regaining his feet, a sapling had been broken off. Using the Simbul's knife, Bro stripped the smaller branches and made himself a staff.

  His confidence rose with a big stick in his hand. He moved faster, breaking into a run at the end when he saw a familiar shape among the trees. The colt raised his head before Bro called his name and met him halfway, nudging hands and sleeves in search of carrots. Bro ran his hands along the colt's neck and back, then down each leg. Except for mud and clinging leaves, the colt seemed unharmed by the seelie spells. Even the braided halter and its lead rope were intact. With the rope firmly in hand, Bro wrapped his arms around the colt's filthy neck. He'd succumbed to another round of tears when he heard a familiar, yet terrifying, sound.

  "Never fight with the seelie, son."

  Bro backed slowly away from Dancer. He'd dropped his sapling staff, but he had the Simbul's knife and withdrew it from its sheath while he scanned the trees for the voice's source.

  "Do what they ask, son, and they'll leave you the way they found you. Do it well enough and they'll give you a taste of their honey and show you the crystal palaces where they live."

  "Rizcarn?"

  Bro had spotted a too-dark patch in one of the trees.

  The voice came from within it, but whether it came from his father-? Strange things lived in the Yuirwood-or didn't live. MightyTree storytellers preached about finding one's ancestors among the trees. Rizcarn himself had preached about waking the old gods. His mother had claimed to have seen the Yuir elves-the full-blooded Sy-Tel'Quessir-dancing by moonlight when she was a little girl. But most of the stories involving the living and the dead ended badly for the living.

  "Rizcarn?" the shadow laughed. "Is that any greeting for your father?"

  "Poppa," Bro said instead, checking his grip on the Simbul's knife. "Come down where I can see you, Poppa."

  Branches rustled. There was a light whump as something landed on the ground. Bro strained his eyes. His father wasn't like other Cha'Tel'Quessir. His hair was glossy black, his skin, the mottled color of moss-covered bark. While he'd lived, he could disappear in midday shadows; at night he was invisible, except for his eyes. As a boy, Bro had laughed when he saw milk-white crescents glistening where his father's face should be. Tonight he remained silent.

  "Don't trust me, son? I know I've been gone a long time."

  "You've been dead!" Bro blurted.

  The crescents vanished. Bro heard last year's leaves crunching beneath Rizcarn's feet. The sound reassured him a little: of dangerous creatures, maybe a quarter of them, had no substance and made no noise with their feet. He retreated a step, into Dancer's shoulder. The colt was calm; whatever that meant.

  Rizcarn reappeared in moonlight. Everything that could be seen matched Bro's lost memories. Almost everything. He'd never seen that shirt with silvery studs along the seams and there was a knife long enough to be called a sword slung at his father's waist.

  "You've changed," Rizcarn said before Bro could get his tongue around the same words. "I suppose they're calling you Ebroin now?"

  He shook his head. "Bro. They call me Bro. Except for Mother-" His tongue froze again. Rizcarn-if the man-shape were Rizcarn-didn't seem to know where he'd been these past seven years. Wouldn't know what had happened to his wife two days ago. Between two heartbeats, Bro gulped down his grief, deciding to say nothing about Shali… yet. "Mother still calls me Ember."

  "Mothers don't let go."

  Rizcarn came closer. He stroked the length of Dancer's nose, then reached for Bro's hand, the hand that held the Simbul's knife. Without thinking, Bro brought the knife up between them.

  "You can trust me, son. I am your father."

  "You died, Poppa. I saw you. Your neck was broken. We dug a grave and buried you… seven years ago."

  Bro watched something like shock harden his father's face for a moment, then the moment passed. He realized Rizcarn's hand was touching his.

  "Sheathe it, son. Relkath wasn't finished with me. I've come back to finish what I started. I've been waiting for you."

  "Here? I've never been here before. I don't even know where I am. One of us is very lucky, Poppa."

  Rizcarn turned his attention to the colt, releasing his son's hand. "You've done well, son. He's strong and healthy. Zandilar will be pleased; she's been waiting for you, too."

  Bro sheathed the knife, dropped Dancer's lead rope, and ran his hands though his hair, as if his fingers could massage understanding through his scalp. Rizcarn studying Dancer gave Bro an opportunity to study Rizcarn. He guessed the opportunity was no accident, but took it gratefully.

  The father he remembered was a tall man. When they'd last embraced Bro's ear had pressed against his father's heart. Now, Bro was a bit taller and broader, as if his life among humans during his growing years had made him more like them, less like the Cha'Tel'Quessir.

  He wondered what it would feel like, staring over his father's shoulder, his arms clutched around ribs no wider than his own. Seven years ago, he would have given anything to hug his father again.

  Now…?

  Now, Bro had all he could do to extend one arm. And stop short of touching his father's arm. Rizcarn's shirt was dry.

  "Were you waiting long, Rizcarn?"

  The older man turned. His eyes, dark circles within stark white, were narrow. "Still can't make up your mind, son? What sign do you need?"

  Bro shook his head.

  "What's happened to you, son? Aren't you glad to see me again?"

  He tried to say that he was, but Bro had never been much of a liar. He stared at the stars, at the trees, anywhere but at the man-shape who claimed to be his father. "You left us, Poppa. You went away so many times. We thought it wouldn't be different. She thought, but it was. You're seven years too late, Poppa."

  Rizcarn touched the beads around Bro's neck, pushed them aside. He touched Bro's shirt and rubbed the homespun cloth slowly between his fingers. "I couldn't find you, son. She'd taken you away. Settled you with the dirt-eaters." He released Bro's shirt and laid his hand on Bro's shoulder where it was a warm, reassuring weight. "Outside's no place for one of Relkath's. No place for any Cha'Tel'Quessir. It's her fault. Blame her, son; she's kept us apart."

  Bro shrugge
d free. "You broke Momma's heart, Poppa, when you died. She couldn't bear the trees. Every one reminded her of you. She couldn't live in the Yuirwood any longer, so she left."

  "Taking you, son. She took you away. She shouldn't have done that. You belong to the forest."

  He'd said the same words countless times to Shali, but they sounded different in Rizcarn's voice, not about home, about possession. For the love and honor he held in his heart for both his parents, Bro swallowed his growing anger and said nothing.

  "That's over now." Rizcarn took Dancer's lead rope. "Past. Forgotten. You're here now; that's what matters. We have much to do, son. Let's go."

  Bro yanked the rope from Rizcarn's hand. Dancer shied; his front hooves lifted. Bro yanked the rope a second time and snapped the loose end against the colt's neck. It was, perhaps, the fourth or fifth time in the colt's short life that Bro had struck him in anger. Dancer might have exploded. Instead he stood rigid, just like Bro.

  "Don't tell me what to do, Poppa," he said after a moment's silence. "I'm not a boy anymore. I'm not your son, ready to do whatever you told me to do, because you were gone so much. I saw my father fall out of a tree and break his fool neck. Maybe you're him come back; maybe you're not. Maybe you should ask me where I've been and why I've come back to the Yuirwood. Maybe you should ask about her."

  "Her?"

  "Her. My mother. Shali. Your wife! Yes, she took me with her to a village outside the Yuirwood. She met a man, a good man, a man who was there all the time, who never left her alone, crying herself to sleep-" Bro could scarcely believe the anger pouring out of his mouth, or the ache he felt for Dent. "A human man who loved her, not the forest or the trees or Relkath Many-Limbed-"

  "Son… Ebroin… be careful what you say."

  Bro ignored the warning. "They had a child between them, a daughter, human, with his blue eyes and a round face. She saw her father every day-every gods' curst day, Poppa. Until two days ago." His anger flagged, remembering it now as if it were still happening. He drew a deep breath, mixing anger and grief together. "Wizards came to our village. Red Wizards, blue wizards, all kinds of wizards including the Simbul herself. Everybody died except me and my sister. Dent… Dent…" Bro couldn't see Rizcarn through his tears. He saw his stepfather, though, clear as life, or death. "They'd cut him in two and part of him was gone, just gone. And Momma was dead, lying on the floor with the back of her head smashed in.