by Lynn Abbey
Then he’d backtracked the ground trails his spells had revealed. One had led him to two bands of Red Wizards, all dead, stripped of their magic artifacts, all Invokers or archers paid in Bezantur coin. The others had come together in a grove not far from the place where the knife had vanished. From there the trail had been easy enough to follow. Lauzoril had hoped it would lead him to the knife and the youth who’d captured his daughter’s attention.
Instead it had led to sunset and a relic from another time: a generous score of rough-hewn stones rising from the ground like a dragon’s teeth. The stallion, normally the most obedient of magical creatures, balked and would not descend the ridge from which they’d first viewed the stones. Just as well: there was little cover between the ridge and the stones where the chattel-kessir had ended their journey.
Lauzoril hid the stallion in the laurel, marking the location carefully in his mind. The trees and bushes were all alike to his eyes, accustomed as they were to the open land of Thazalhar. He liked the place, though, despite the discomforts of whiplash bushes and the countless tree limbs that crossed the stallion’s straight-line path at the precise height of a mounted rider’s forehead. And as for the Yuirwood’s vaunted inhibition of spellcraft: he’d experienced none of it. The usual spells by which he guided the stallion had performed flawlessly, and the enchantment he cast over the horse to hide it yielded a moss-covered boulder as rugged and ancient as the stones beyond the ridge.
Don’t believe, the dagger Shazzelurt had hissed in the zulkir’s mind while he contemplated his spellcraft. Nothing is what it seems, Master. Nothing is unwatched. Leave, Master. Leave now!
The blade told the truth. The Aglarondan forest was thoroughly haunted—almost as haunted as the rolling hills of Thazalhar. Shazzelurt didn’t approve of Thazalhar, either. Hiding himself as he’d hidden the horse, Lauzoril had settled down on the ridge crest to watch the chattel-kessir and wait until the air was dark enough for him to risk getting closer.
In Thay, the art and craft stealth was the province of assassins and though a good many Red Wizards worked as assassins in the hard years after they left their academies, Lauzoril hadn’t been among them. He hadn’t learned to move quietly until he was living in Thazalhar and wished not to disturb the fragile prairies as he walked through them. The zulkir had always been a good student; he eased down the ridge toward the stone circle unobserved, in advance of the rising moon.
The sense of magic grew stronger with each step, and though it didn’t oppose his passage, Lauzoril quickly believed that it could, and in ways a Thayan zulkir would be helpless to counter—a belief that Shazzelurt confirmed continually in his mind until, with an act of will, Lauzoril had made himself deaf to the knife’s complaints.
Lauzoril watched an argument brew between two of the chattel-kessir, a brown-haired woman and a brown-skinned man. He wasn’t able to grasp its substance: They spoke their own language here, a language he didn’t understand. It occurred to the zulkir, as he waited beyond the outer, taller circle, that he might successfully rescue the mongrel youth—even bring him back to the Thazalhar estate to serve his daughter—and be unable to speak with him. The Thayan dialect, though heavily influenced by Mulhorandi, was intelligible everywhere in Faerûn, and elven types invariably understood common human speech; the challenge was getting them to admit it before they died of stubbornness.
He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He hoped he’d still have the chance to be the hero for Mimuay; and for the mongrel youth as well, who ought to be grateful to whoever rescued him from the Zulkir of Illusion or the Simbul of Aglarond. With the discovery of the partially looted Red Wizard corpses Lauzoril judged it unlikely that Invocation was behind the snatch. Aznar Thrul would never have left the gold and jewelry behind.
The argument ended with the woman laying down her weapons and entering the inner circle. The other chattel-kessir—crouched behind the tall stones, in the subtle draft of their power, the zulkir had begun to wish he knew what these people called themselves. They had a greater dignity than he’d imagined for them, a greater grace and beauty—even the stubborn woman who didn’t want to dance and had been cajoled into leading the others.
Slaves danced in Thay, when they thought they could get away with it, making music on logs, bits of pottery and cast-off furniture, unless they’d been purchased for entertainment. Red Wizards never danced, even romantically inclined enchanters. The zulkir watched, enraptured, as the simple pipe melody grew complicated and wild. The stubborn woman surrendered to the swirling rhythm. She tore her hair and was transformed.
Lauzoril sat back, cursing himself for ignoring Shazzelurt’s warnings. He expanded his awareness—his suspicions. The youth had been snatched by Mythrell’aa of Illusion because the woman, the stubborn woman whose brown hair now flowed silver in the moonlight was Aglarond’s queen, the Simbul. He recognized her from descriptions Red Wizard spies funneled back to Thay and, more reliably, from the one time when he’d spied through his knife and felt her essence in his mind. He was a dead man if she felt his presence half as acutely. But, having abandoned herself to the music, she seemed oblivious to the world beyond the stones.
And then there was a column of light within the dancers’ circle. It widened and coalesced into a horse—likely the twilight horse Aznar Thrul’s spy master had mentioned—and a splendid woman formed from moonlight and mist. She said something in the forest language. The music stopped.
Lauzoril discovered that he was on his feet and had taken a step toward the light.
Shazzelurt manifested in the zulkir’s thoughts, ever ready to dominate and exploit a weakened mind. Lauzoril’s thoughts snapped into familiar patterns. He threw off the dagger’s influence, and the silver-form woman’s as well, just in time to sense magic hanging some ten or fifteen paces, withershins, away outside the circle.
A gate opened from another place, an illusory place, shrouded in shadow: Mythrell’aa’s place. When the gate closed, three figures stood outside the circle: a woman and two men, a zulkir and her minions. One of them was the youth he and Mimuay had seen in the scrying bowl. The other, answering the silver-form woman’s call, started walking toward the stone circles.
Be wary, Master. Be gone. He bears the mark of Gur.
The mark of Gur, Lusaka Gur who taught the Red Wizards how to die effectively, and running, now, toward the Simbul.
Nearing the end of his fifth decade, the Zulkir of Enchantment was a wizard in full command of his talent, but it hadn’t always been that way. As a young man, Lauzoril had become zulkir strictly on the quickness of his wits and his willingness to commit himself—to plunge blindly, if the naked truth were admitted—into action. Surprised or cornered, he was still that bold young man, but, now that he was a zulkir, he could cast spells of his school by will alone.
Lauzoril boldly cast a sphere of freedom and disenchantment on the running man. It wouldn’t rid him of Gur’s mark, but it would insure that he knew who he was taking with him when he died. The zulkir had a hunch that it wouldn’t be Aglarond’s witch-queen. Then, for his daughter, Lauzoril whispered the word that would transport him to Mythrell’aa’s side. He was, perhaps, the last person Lady Illusion expected to see emerging from the Yuirwood shadows and she had never been the most quick-witted among the zulkirs. While her tattooed brow writhed in confusion, Lauzoril grabbed the bleak-faced mongrel with one hand and with the other delivered a bone-crushing punch to Mythrell’aa’s sharp nose.
Magic spells had their place in Thay, but a well-made fist was still a man’s best weapon in close quarters. Blood streamed down the zulkir’s face as she crumpled to the ground. Freed from enchantment and whatever other compulsions Mythrell’aa kept about him, the marked man had stopped running. He stared at his arm—why, Lauzoril couldn’t guess—then changed his course, running back the way he’d come, running toward him and Mythrell’aa as if his life—his death—depended on it.
Lauzoril wrapped both arms around the mongrel and broke the seal
on a coward’s retreat—a tiny enchanted artifact attached to his belt—that brought him, and the youth in his arm, back to his moss-covered stone horse just as the mark of Gur shook the ground.
Alassra couldn’t stop. She couldn’t stop the tears. She couldn’t stop the tumbling between here and there, then and now. She couldn’t stop, because she didn’t want to.
For one moment, Lailomun was coming toward her: the love of her life whom she believed was dead, whom she hoped had died more than a century ago. He’d been smiling as he ran toward her with the mark of Gur incandescent on his brow. Alassra knew that mark and its variations. She’d seen it glowing on countless Red Wizards in the moments before they destroyed themselves utterly. Since coming to Aglarond, the Simbul had carefully researched the various spells of Lusaka Gur and found ways to foil them. Wisely, she’d made those foils a thoughtless part of her defenses—if she’d had to think, if she’d had to act consciously to defend herself from Lailomun, Mythrell’aa would have had her victory.
But a spell had come out of nowhere—from Zandilar, perhaps, or the Yuirwood itself protecting the sacred Sunglade. It had fallen around Lailomun’s shoulders, and he’d stopped running. He’d looked at her, all love and longing. He’d looked at his arm—why, Alassra couldn’t guess. He’d said something; she’d seen his lips move, but the sound hadn’t carried and she didn’t know what his words had been. Then he’d turned and run back toward Mythrell’aa who’d collapsed—from shock or horror—before the mark of Gur consumed him.
The mark was a powerful spell as Lusaka Gur devised it, but Mythrell’aa had compounded its effect. The blast sphere was larger and more destructive; and when it touched the outer limit of the Simbul’s habitual defenses it triggered the counterspells she’d researched long ago. The spells would have carried her back to Velprintalar, if she’d let them, but Alassra chose drifting, tumbling, wallowing between guilt and despair.
It wasn’t easy for a wizard of the Simbul’s experience to lose herself, but she tried and settled, eventually, in a place of gentle darkness.
“You have found me. You are welcome, but you cannot remain here.”
The voice came from all directions. It was a sadly wise woman’s voice, very much like Mystra’s voice when the goddess first appeared to Alassra in the Outer Planes. The Simbul gathered her wits: her defenses and might. Her strength of mind and magic was the main reason Alassra Shentrantra could never lose herself. She hovered in the darkness and studied it. There was form around her, shifting veils of angular shadow surrounding a faint, but clear, light.
“Who are you?”
“Ask yourself.”
Alassra locked her despair and grief in corner of her memory to which she might—or might not—return. She was in the presence of divine power—not Mystra—and it demanded her full attention.
“I am Alassra Shentrantra, Queen of Aglarond, called the Simbul.”
The light within the shifting shadows grew stronger. Alassra remembered the stone she’d called her own. The truth was suddenly so obvious she could only marvel at the ancient magic that had kept it concealed. And though there was no ground beneath her feet, Alassra got down on her knees.
“But you are the Simbul. I knelt before your stone; I kneel before you now.”
“Stand before me, Alassra. Though you were never meant to see my face, it is too late for worship. You cannot remain in here. You must go back.”
Alassra stood. “I will.” She cleared her throat. “I serve … Another goddess chose me.”
The sharp veils fluttered with amusement. “Mystra. Yes. I know all about you, Alassra Shentrantra. To be forgotten is not the same as being blind or deaf. Your goddess sent you to Aglarond.”
“Intentionally?” Alassra asked bluntly.
She hadn’t asked to be Chosen, might well have refused if she’d been given a choice—had refused when Mystra first confronted her after Lailomun’s abduction. Mystra hadn’t mentioned the Simbul when she suggested Aglarond might be a good place to heal. But goddesses weren’t compelled to mention anything and sharing one of her Chosen wouldn’t have been entirely unprecedented. Alassra’s drow sister, Qilué, was high priestess of Eilistraee in addition to being one of Mystra’s Chosen, but that had been arranged before Qilué’s birth.
If this sharing was also the result of a six-hundred-year-old bargain, Alassra was going to be angry beyond measure: the end didn’t justify the means, not when it was her life in the balance.
The Simbul eased Alassra’s worries. “Like you, Queen Ilione’s mother was Cha’Tel’Quessir. She remembered her heritage when you first came to her brother’s court; she remembered the Simbul.”
Alassra shook her head in contradiction. “Nobody knew. It was just a word—not even a name. The stone has been defaced since before the first Cha’Tel’Quessir were born.” She thouerht about the other vacant Sunglade stones and the bits of legend the elven sages had revealed in Everlund. “The Yuir gods: Relkath, Zandilar, Magnar … you were adopted by the Seldarine, absorbed by them, and then forgotten?”
The shadow light dimmed slightly. “It wasn’t supposed to happen that way. Our race—our mortal kindred—was besieged. The bonds between us were doomed. Our realm was doomed. We had chosen another path and it led nowhere … it led here. The Tel’Quessir came from elsewhere. They weren’t besieged, but they needed a place in Abeir-toril. Our heritage passed to the Sy-Tel’Quessir, who swore to cherish, nurture and protect it.”
“But they couldn’t do that for something they were afraid of. I met with elven sages at Everlund. If you know all about me, you know what they said.”
“Fierce,” the Simbul replied. “Fierce and reckless: that is what Ilione saw and why she gave you my name. I had not had a presence for so long … My moment had been forgotten before the Yuir passed into the wood.”
“So, that’s what I am—a wild and reckless presence in Aglarond. Rizcarn is Relkath’s magpie in the Yuirwood. Are there others?”
“Magnar hopes for a strong man. Zandilar wanted a child—and a dancer.”
Alassra thought of the carnage she’d escaped. “She didn’t get what she wanted, did she?”
“She has more than most of us. There’s always a place for Zandilar. Her moment cannot be forgotten; her power will always be remembered. You have not asked, Alassra Shentrantra, what the Simbul is. When were we not forgotten, why were we remembered?”
“I’m not so sure I want to know.”
“When the Tel’Quessir came, they asked me to choose between Labelas Enoreth, the Seldarine power of time and philosophy, and Erevan Ilesere, their power of change—”
Powers, moments, and presence, Alassra thought, but not gods. The Simbul spoke of Mystra as a goddess, but she had not applied the word to herself.
“I became the power of balance allied to Labelas Enoreth—”
“But you’re not balance. I’m not balance. I’ve been hearing that all my life.”
The shadows rippled with laughter like the breaking of fine glass bells and the light brightened again. “I am the edge, Alassra Shentrantra. When the hunter facing the charging beast has to decide whether to throw his spear, whether to dodge, and the moment to do either, I am that moment. I was. When the hunted comes to two paths and, knowing neither, must still choose between them, I am that moment of choice. I am the edge of the cliff, the bending branch, the moment when you must jump. When you decide, without knowing why, without knowing anything at all, at that moment I am with you.”
“I think I understand the problem. The Tel’Quessir aren’t like that at all—well, maybe the drow. You’d have done better with humans.”
“We began with humans, when humans were young and the gods you know had yet to be imagined, and we bargained futilely and to our detriment with the drow.”
“Now you have the Cha’Tel’Quessir who are looking for gods, not moments. Gods who will make them a mighty people.”
The Simbul said nothing.
“There’s
always more,” Alassra complained. “More than can be told. More that can’t be revealed.”
“More that is not known!” The Simbul roared and the Simbul’s namesake fought to keep her place against the wind. “Knowledge comes after the moment!”
They faced each other in the nowhere realm of forgotten gods.
“I am going back,” Alassra said, with no particular grace or friendship. “I know the way.”
“I give you a gift.”
“I refuse.”
“It is only advice, Alassra Shentrantra. I’ve already given you my name; I have nothing else to give.”
In her heart, Alassra didn’t believe that, but she stayed to hear.
“The hunter practices with his spear, the hunted learns every path in the forest but they survive because when they come to the edge, they give themselves to the edge and the edge guides them.”
“So?”
“You could have had a child tonight, Alassra Shentrantra. You could have a child any day or any night, but you will never have a child if you turn back from the edge.”
Cutting words surfaced in Alassra’s mind. She drove them back. The Simbul’s advice wasn’t a threat—or even a promise. She had made too much of wanting Elminster’s child, her way, her time, her place; she’d gotten in her own way, pushed herself further from her desires—if they were truly her desires.
Pushed herself further from the edge.
“I’ll think about it.” Alassra found the spell in her mind that would take her back to the Sunglade—whatever remained of it. “I’ll think about it, and I’ll remember.”
“That is all I ask, Alassra Shentrantra. Remember the Simbul. Remember what has been forgotten.”
Dawn came to the stone circles the Cha’Tel’Quessir called the Sunglade. Lauzoril had learned the proper names, the proper pronunciations from the young man seated opposite him. Ebroin’s eyes were still hollow and haunted. His body bore the marks of Mythrell’aa’s cruelty. The zulkir had offered assistance: he carried various elixirs and had bribed the rudiments of healing from a dissolute priestess of Myrkul before the death god died.
