A Forthcoming Wizard

by Jody Lynn Nye

  “Very well, then,” Olen said. He laid the reins on Sihine’s neck.

  The mare trotted downward in a spiral as easily as if she were on a gentle, grass-covered slope. A bare touch of Olen’s knees brought her to a stop before the enormous hand.

  “Go ahead, Tildi. If you are right, let this be your doing.” He gestured toward the vast, gray stone palm, no smaller than Olen’s study in Silvertree.

  Keenly aware of the still monumental drop beneath her feet, Tildi boosted herself off the saddle with the book under her arm. She stepped out onto the edge of the thumb. She stepped over the crags and crevices that on a smallfolk’s hand would be shallower than the thickness of a hair. When she reached the middle, she looked back at Olen. He gave her an encouraging nod and a gesture.

  By then the entire party of guards had gathered at the edge of the hand.

  “What are you doing?” Sharhava demanded of Olen. “You place her and the book in danger!”

  “Not really,” Olen said. “I am placing her, I hope, in the best of hands. Hm hm hm.” He chuckled to himself. “Go ahead, my dear.”

  Tildi was reluctant to let go of the book. This, after all, might be one of its original masters. It might forsake her. But she thought of her friends. They were worth the sacrifice of any treasure, however precious. With an act of will, she set it down in the center of the palm.

  The moment that the book touched the stone, Tildi saw thready tendrils of gold spread out from the scroll and wind their way into the surface. A glow of light started from the center of the palm and rushed outward, along the massive arm and out into the body, like the edge of a bit of paper catching fire. Rumbling, or perhaps the opposite of rumbling, for it was seen rather than heard or felt, began deep within the statue.

  “Come back, Mistress Summerbee!” the abbess shouted, holding out her hand to Tildi. A crack appeared in the stone folds of the robe just above the base of the arm on which she stood. She solidified the air and stepped up off the stone. Or thought she did. Her foot went straight through the rune she had made and set down again upon the palm. She realized that she couldn’t move from her place.

  “Master Olen!” she cried.

  Olen had seen her distress. He pointed his staff at the palm beneath her feet. “Othatku!” he shouted.

  More runes sprang into being. Tildi pulled at each foot, trying to free it.

  Above her, the statue seemed to be breaking free from the depths of the ages. As Olen had said, it was a living, giant creature. It was not so much that it was made of stone, but the accretion of years—ten millennia—had layered dust upon it until it was solid and the being within it slept. Beneath the cracking shell, the ancient visage was at once fearsome and yet beautiful.

  To her horror, the statue began to collapse in on itself. Olen seemed to soar away above her. She realized, as he turned Sihine’s head to follow, that she was dropping away from him, dragged down by the grip on her feet. An angry wind whistled in her ears. She was falling with the wreckage of the statue, unable to free herself. Debris fell around her. She cringed, but nothing touched her, a tribute to Serafina’s protective spell. How far was the ground? Would she be killed on impact in spite of the magic?

  “Tildi!” Magpie shouted, his clear voice cutting through the rumbling, which was now audible.

  “Help me!” she called back. The soldiers and knights yelled to one another, trying to find her in the dust that filled the air. She coughed and batted at the obscuring cloud. Shadows of enormous boulders made her flinch.

  Before she knew it, she felt a hard blow to the soles of her feet. The giant stones struck the ground with thunderous booms. She staggered sideways, but something held on to her arm and jerked her upright again. A hooded man loomed over her in the haze. She knew him as if she had spotted him in a crowd. He had the same face as the statue, but instead of stone gray, his face was the color of warm oak wood, almost as dark as Magpie’s. She looked down. Toils of golden light held her as tightly as ropes.

  He brandished the book at her. His eyes, deep-set and light in color, blazed at her. Tildi gazed at him in confusion.

  “Thief! How came you by this? Do you serve Knemet? Answer!”

  “That’s the name!” Olen exclaimed, pleased with himself, as he alighted beside them. Sihine pawed unhappily at the knee-deep dust into which her hooves sank. The wizard swung out of the saddle. “I knew it must be he or Ayrcolida.”

  Riders surrounded the tall, hooded man. “Release her!” Captain Teryn ordered, pointing her sword at him. The Scholardom ringed them, bows drawn. “She has done no wrong! Release her now or face us.”

  The tall man suddenly became aware of the others. He turned to survey them and waved a long hand. A blue-tinted bubble enclosed him and Tildi. The dust that filled the air settled swiftly, leaving all standing knee-deep in dunes and heaps in the midst of a broad hollow that had been where one of the statue’s giant feet had been. They were surrounded by the deep pine forest that cut off all sight of the water. The soft grains shifted at any movement. Tildi dug at the thick debris, fearing that she would be buried. The tall man realized her distress and flicked a hand. She found herself dragged upward until she hung suspended eye to eye with him.

  “Speak of this book. I demand an explanation!”

  “I didn’t steal it,” Tildi said.

  “She is not a thief, good sir,” Olen said, moving forward. He passed easily through the spell that enclosed Tildi and the stranger and closed it behind him.

  The hooded man turned to eye Olen and peered at the rune upon his chest. “A wizard, eh?”

  “Yes, sir, like yourself. An admirer of yours and your work. I am Olen.”

  “I am Calester,” the stranger said slowly, as though trying out the long-disused name on his tongue.

  Olen looked enormously pleased. “I assumed so. I have tried many times to make contact with you by means of my art, but you have never responded to me. I see that I lacked the proper stimulus. I am glad that I have succeeded at last. Our need is great.”

  Calester peered at him. “I see no guile in you. If you are not thieves and you are not in the employ of my enemy, why does she have the Compendium? And who are these people?”

  “Sir, we are on the same side in this battle,” Olen said, “but this is a very uncomfortable place to give you what will be a very long explanation. May we invite you to join us on board the ship on which we travel? It is anchored to the north of this island.”

  For the first time, Calester looked around. The ground around them was littered with chunks of rock the size of cottages. They had landed in piles and heaps, splintering the wind-weathered trees. He smiled. It lifted the long lines of his face into a pleasant, even appealing visage. “I have been here on this island so long, it almost seems wrong to abandon it. But you are right. There is little in the way of hospitality I can offer you. I accept your invitation.”

  Olen upturned a hand. “May I then ask you to release my apprentice?”

  Calester raised an eyebrow, but the bonds surrounding Tildi released at once. She caught herself with her own magic just before she dropped into a heap of dust. “Apprentice, eh? They take them younger and younger every day, now. Stars and moons, but I have missed a great deal. I look forward to hearing your tales, good people. I trust I have not found myself in a future where there is no wine?”

  Olen laughed. “Not at all, sir. I think you will find things much as you left them.” He came over to take the other’s arm. “Now, how long ago did you set yourself to stand here, and why?”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  liked being a giant, sir,” Calester said, tipping his wineglass in Magpie’s direction. The Maker sat at the head of the semicircle of chairs hastily arranged in the captain’s cabin. The Great Book lay across his lap. “It gave me perspective and a chance to think. Too much time, perhaps. I set myself there at the mouth of the Arown to catch the Compendium, should it ever return to Niombra, and I missed it by months, you say?”
>
  “Yes, Master Calester,” Magpie said, not wanting to relate the precise circumstances. “Several months at least. I believe I was close behind its thief as it went northward, but I lost all trace of it thereafter.”

  “And a fair amount of harm it has done in that time.”

  His father sat across from him, stony-faced Soliander was angry with him again and unimpressed by the newcomer. “Foolish enterprises, putting yourself and others into unnecessary danger,” he fumed. “You allowed the lady Inbecca to fall into peril, and what about Mistress Summerbee?” Magpie’s ears were still burning. As usual, his father’s admonition was unfair. He had kept very close to Inbecca all the time they were airborne, and made sure she was in no peril from the flying shards of rock. As for Tildi, she had had two wizards looking after her. How much safer could she have been? He had underestimated Calester’s reaction to being awakened, but so had they all.

  Beside Soliandur, Halcot could do nothing but stare in awe at the visitor. The ease with which the newcomer handled the perilous scroll alone had convinced him of what Olen had said upon introducing him, that this was one of the famed Shining Ones. Sharhava, on the other hand, was united in skepticism with Soliandur. Her green-blue eyes were flinty as they bored into him. Patha, Temur, and Haroun, in seats of honor among the company as representatives of their people, also stared at the newcomer. “That time is over,” Calester said, patting the book. “The Compendium shall go back to its place, as soon as may be. I hoped that it would remain buried until Father Time calls an end to eternity. This time it shall be. I am in your debt, good friends. Captain Betiss, I request your assistance. What be your price to convey me southward to Sheatovra as soon as possible?”

  “Well, sir, southward was our intent,” Haroun said, clearing his throat. “Right up until a few days ago, that is.”

  “A few days? Why should that make a difference?”

  Tildi sat in her small chair between Serafina and Olen, not far away. Magpie felt sorry for her. She could hardly take her eyes off the Great Book. How likely was it she would ever have it in her keeping again, when it had returned to one of the ones who had made it?

  As if any proof of ownership was needed, Calester handled the scroll with gentle fingers. It responded to him as it had to Tildi, the crisp, pure parchment almost caressing his fingers as he turned the spindle to look at the pages. It affected him no more than it had Tildi; less, perhaps, because it was his own creation.

  Halcot cleared his throat. “Because two of our valiant friends, sir, who had been instrumental in preventing the Compendium, as you call it, from falling into the wrong hands, have been carried off at the orders of your ancient colleague, or so we believe.”

  Calester turned up his hand. “Ah, no, then I could not think to delay. If Knemet is indeed in pursuit of the Compendium, we must hurry to get it far away from him. The sooner that it is once again out of the world, the better. What are two lives against the safety of the world?”

  “Those two lives are precious to us,” Olen said gently.

  The long lines of Calester’s face were as obdurate as if they were still carved in stone.

  “I am sorry for your grief, then. If it is Knemet who seeks it, then all the better to thwart him by taking away the prize. If it is not, it would be better if the book did not fall into the grasp of someone who does not truly understand its power. They were lost in a good cause. I hope that gives you some measure of comfort, my friends.”

  “They are not lost!” Tildi burst out. “They are alive. They were carried off by thraiks.”

  “Thraiks?” the Maker echoed, looking at her curiously. “What do you know of thraiks?”

  Tildi’s face got hot. “Far too much for my lifetime,” she snapped. “Anyone who has touched the book or a copy of it has been carried off by thraiks. All of my family, and almost me.”

  Calester studied her closely. “You are a smallfolk, aren’t you? I did not pay close heed to you when you woke me from my doze. My goodness, look at you! A smallfolk, and so well formed.”

  “There’s no need to be insulting,” Tildi said, feeling her cheeks redden.

  “Please forgive me,” he said, reaching out to her with one long hand. Tildi kept both of hers folded in her lap. Calester withdrew his and rested his long fingers upon the curve of the Great Book. “It has been so long since I had seen one of your kind. When smallfolk were created, they were much more crudely shaped.” He tilted his head to one side to study her further. “They were our first attempt to combine traits of humans with plant life—mostly human, of course.”

  “Trees?” Olen inquired.

  “Smaller woody plants,” Calester confirmed. “Nancols, they were called. Rare, but just what we needed. Pliable, capable of growing delicate limbs and deeply rooted for toughness. You are much more human-looking than the earliest progenitors, lass. Did your ancestors choose to marry those who were more human, or did they just develop?”

  “I don’t know,” Tildi said, trying not to feel as if she were undressing in public. “My people don’t like the idea that they haven’t existed since the beginning of time.”

  “They do not want to go all the way back to the family . . . tree,” Olen said wryly.

  Calester threw back his head and laughed. “Mother Nature,” he exclaimed. “Oh, I wish I had stayed out and about longer to study, but change is so slow in coming over the years. I had set myself up to wake every century or so, but I fell out of the habit. I see I have missed much. You are a success beyond anything we thought possible. There’s an elegance to you, now: a smoothness of line, as if everything knit together over time. Do all your folk resemble you?”

  “My friend,” Olen said, holding up a hand to forestall the outburst anyone could see Tildi was building within her, “as you say, the book should be laid to rest as soon as possible. Let us not hare away into other matters, no matter how fascinating they are. I would know more, so much more about you and your colleagues. You have become legend to us. I have thousands of questions to ask you, but I, too, must stay my curiosity. It is a matter of grave importance to us not to allow our friends to languish. How long can hope survive?”

  “I see,” Calester said, his expression souring. “You would have me delay for no better reason than that?”

  “No better reason . . . ?” Patha repeated, her golden eyes catching fire. “Loyalty is not a good reason? What reason then should we require from you for your purposes? It makes no difference to me if we take you to Sheatovra, or make you wait until spring when we return to the north. If I give the word, no werewolf trader will carry you now or at any time in the future, no matter how long you wait. How would you like to be set back upon your island?”

  Calester looked surprised and a little hurt. “My lady, I thought that perhaps I could receive your cooperation. After all, without the efforts of me and my colleagues, your folk would not even exist!” He offered a wistful smile.

  “And for that you wish our gratitude?” Patha snapped. “I would kill you if I could. Generations of my people have suffered from living two lives, subject to the whims of the moons.”

  Calester sighed. “It was not our intention, my lady. Joining human to wolf was not an easy enterprise. The only way to build stability into your first ancestors was to add the moons’ magic. That magic proved to be changeable with the lunar phases, but we saw no other way at the time. I regret it if it has caused you woe.”

  “The fact that you meddled with Mother Nature’s purpose caused woe to more than the werewolf folk,” Sharhava said.

  “I see that time has not been kind to our reputation,” Calester said ruefully. “We went into our studies with the best of intentions, my lady.”

  “Intentions!”

  Olen held up a hand and appealed to Abbess Sharhava. “What’s done is done, as you yourself have remarked rather recently. No one will undo the work of millennia past. What matters is today.”

  “And today, good sir,” Calester said, “I hope t
hat you will understand the urgency of my mission. We must go south at once. Please set sail as soon as you can, Captain.”

  “You do not command this ship or this company,” Patha said.

  “What was your purpose when you took your place as the Guardian?”

  Calester lowered his eyes modestly. “You will think it a conceit, but I wanted to protect my homeland from any possible incursions by my old colleague. After the battle, many centuries ago—do you know of it?” The others nodded.

  “We know some tales,” Olen said. “I would know all.”

  “And I will tell it all,” Calester promised, “when peace and safety have once again been obtained. Briefly, then: two of our number had died during the course of our defense against Knemet, Reck and Deelin, dear friends of mine. Knemet was vanquished, but not dead. Once he had disappeared, we placed the Compendium out of reach, or so we believed. Our war had consumed decades—centuries. We were all deeply tired. We required rest, but we could not be at ease, since we knew not where Knemet had gone. We discussed the matter honestly, knowing that Knemet might return to take his revenge. I offered to be the one on vigil. We believed he could come back at any time. I took up the place where you found me. At first I was more active, but over the years I found I was able to accomplish deeper thinking if I stayed in one place. I created the form you saw over time. It gave me a matchless vantage to continue my watch, but in a passive manner, and I could not be disturbed, save for a threat.

  “As you know, thousands of years have passed. Outlanders attacked this land in the earlier years. I used my influence to drive away intruders, but I never sensed enough of a threat to awaken me from my study. As the incursions grew less, I became more interested in my inner thoughts than what went on around me. Most recently, I was deeply pondering a matter of creative magic that took me over five centuries to consider, and in so doing, I allowed my attention to wander . . . but never mind,” he said, disappointing Olen, who was watching him with avid eyes. “Knemet must be preparing to set himself up as a power once again. This poor mad wizard you spoke of must have fallen into Knemet’s power to have found it and retrieved it.”