Wanderlust

by Mary Kirchoff

  Hiddukel was aghast. “That’s impossible!”

  “Nothing is impossible for a god.”

  Hiddukel recognized that he stood on the brink of a trap; the animated face on the coin fell still in reflection.

  “You are a god of evil. LaDonna is the highest wizard of the black robes. Think of a way.” Balcombe held the gem up to Hiddukel’s eyes again, scarlet shafts of light dancing crazily on the walls.

  “When?”

  Balcombe swallowed an ecstatic smile. “I will summon you from the temple, as usual. We will make the exchange then.”

  The coin flipped back to the defiant side. “Time is needed to prepare! LaDonna is no fool.”

  “Surely she is no match for a god.” As the words slipped out, Balcombe gasped inwardly at his own effrontery. Had he pushed too hard, overestimated Hiddukel’s conceit, when he was so close to getting what he wanted?

  “Have a care, mortal,” warned the coin in rigid tones. “I am not easily moved to true anger, but you have pushed me long and hard. I am not in your debt. You are in mine. As long as that condition persists, all I have granted to you can be withdrawn, including your life. Consider that well before next you question my power.”

  Balcombe had never truly tested Hiddukel’s power on Krynn, but what he had seen in the past was impressive. It was entirely possible, he knew, that Hiddukel could enforce his threat, if not directly then through other followers. Few people openly worshiped the cunning god of bargaining, but Balcombe had good reason to suspect that many people, like himself, served Hiddukel secretly. More than once in the past, Hiddukel had demanded that Balcombe deliver a specific person’s soul. While Hiddukel had never said it directly, Balcombe had no doubt that those victims were also followers of Hiddukel who had either betrayed or displeased the god. The thought that such assassins could be stalking in his own shadow chilled Balcombe, especially as it meant that his soul would be forfeit to Hiddukel’s evil pleasures.

  “I beg pardon, Hiddukel. The thought of my ultimate vengeance drawing so close made my words rash. You know I have served you faithfully for ten years. I ask only for what you have promised me.

  “And consider what it would mean to you to have a loyal servant in such a high position as the Conclave of Wizards,” he continued. “We can both profit by this.” Balcombe knew that the best way to shield himself from Hiddukel’s wrath was to turn the god’s attention to something else. In this case, as usual, the best lure was what the god craved most after souls: profit and power.

  “Indeed,” mouthed the coin’s jovial face, “I have given much thought to your case over the years. You are a very interesting prospect.” But then the coin flipped over, revealing the stern face. Balcombe knew from experience that this meant the dealing would get harsh. The stern face drove much harder bargains than the jovial face, but it also bargained for significantly higher stakes.

  “Do not deceive yourself, however,” it snarled. “There are others who also crave LaDonna’s post. Some may be more deserving than you. Some are more faithful than you, others more deferential. Then there is LaDonna herself. Why should I favor you over any of them?”

  As always when he spoke with Hiddukel, Balcombe’s mind raced ahead, sharp and focused. “Others may crave the post, but I was promised revenge. Both of us know that once drawn, you must uphold your contracts. I have been patient, Hiddukel, but I have waited a long time. And now I’m bringing you a soul such as you’ve not seen for a long time.”

  The coin cut Balcombe off before he could continue. “What do you know of time, human? I have lived through ages you could not imagine. I have been banned from your world, denied the souls I crave, for such a time that years are not sufficient to measure it. What is your wait, compared to mine? These pathetic pleas do not impress me.”

  “But your scale of time does not apply to me,” responded Balcombe. “Unlike you, I grow old. My time in this world is limited. The longer you wait to grant my request, the less time I will have to serve you from a position of ultimate power. Consider the souls I could send you if I were seated on the conclave. The feast would be like nothing you’ve ever known, and could begin with LaDonna. We would both have what we want most.”

  Years of experience had taught Balcombe how to play on Hiddukel’s greed most effectively. If this appeal failed, there would be others. Balcombe had not burned any bridges behind him, but he could not imagine an argument that might be more effective against the patron god of soul stealing.

  The coin flipped back to its jovial side. Vainly Balcombe tried to catch it and force the stern face to remain up, but he was too slow. Now he knew the jovial face, unwilling to seal a pact of this magnitude, would cut off the negotiation.

  “Bring the soul to the appointed place, where I can examine it more closely,” the coin said with a smile. “We will consider this issue in more detail at that time.” Then the mouth sealed itself shut and once again the item in Balcombe’s hand was nothing but a grotesque coin.

  Not sure whether he should be frustrated or elated, Balcombe snapped his fist shut over the coin. He had extracted no new promises from the god, nor had he received any assurances. At the same time, he had not been turned down, and that alone was some encouragement. As long as Hiddukel was willing to entertain a possibility, there was reason to be hopeful.

  Standing and stretching his muscular, six-foot frame, Balcombe returned the coin to its secret pocket, then carefully replaced the soul gem in its elaborate hiding place.

  The next step, he told himself, was to prepare the altar for the ceremony that would relinquish the squire’s soul to Hiddukel. It must be carried out flawlessly, Balcombe knew, because another soul this attractive might never fall into his hands.

  There was difficulty, however, because the altar was not at the castle. The risk of accidental discovery was too great for the altar to be anywhere near the town. If his horrid practices or even his devotion to Hiddukel ever became known publicly or revealed to Lord Curston, Balcombe’s career, and probably his life, would be over. For that reason, the altar was well hidden, miles from town in a rugged area of the Eastwall Mountains.

  Getting there on foot would take Balcombe at least a day, probably more, of hard traveling. But he could be there in little over an hour by using a spell of flying.

  Still it was a difficult and dangerous trip. The higher regions of the mountains were inhabited by hostile creatures. The ceremony of transference itself was time-consuming, which meant that he needed a good excuse to avoid suspicion over his absence from the court. True to his Solamnic heritage, Curston was mistrustful of magic and its practitioners. He kept a court mage only because a person in his powerful position had an obvious need for one and because Balcombe had proven his usefulness many times. None of that meant Curston completely trusted his mage.

  Balcombe turned around and studied the chart of lunar cycles on the wall. The three moons of Krynn—Lunitari, Solinari, and Nuitari—controlled the power of magic in the world with their phases. Being an evil god, Hiddukel was at the height of his power when Nuitari, the black moon, was in high sanction. The same applied to Hiddukel’s followers. The only time Balcombe could transfer souls to Hiddukel was during the high sanction of Nuitari, a condition that existed for a stretch of seven days out of every twenty-eight.

  Balcombe knew that tomorrow night was the first night of high sanction for Nuitari. The day after that, Nuitari and Lunitari would be aligned for one day. During that time, the power of all wizards on Ansalon would be increased, but particularly black and red-robed mages. Veins stood out on Balcombe’s neck as he thought back to the failed Test that had kept him out of the Order of Red Robes and thrust him into Hiddukel’s service. Because he served Hiddukel, he received the same benefits from Nuitari as any black-robed wizard.

  Still thinking about his approaching appointment at the altar, Balcombe became vaguely aware of a small, furry rodent scurrying about on his work counter. The castle was full of mice and rats, and Balcombe
had, in fact, befriended a number of them over the years, though he might just as easily use them in his experiments. They liked to nibble at fallen bits of spell components and drink the dregs of liquids in his mortar bowls.

  Balcombe was certain he had never seen this particular mouse in his laboratory before; he would have remembered such a slight, bright-eyed little creature. He watched as it darted among the surgical tools and bowls, snuffling its delicate whiskers at crumbs.

  Suddenly its vision fastened onto something at the end of the counter. The furry brown rodent lunged forward, struggling to stretch its jaws enough to snatch up the bracelet in its sharp little teeth.

  “Why, you little—” Balcombe began, angry and puzzled at the same time. He reached out to seize the audacious mouse as it struggled to drag the heavy bracelet to the counter’s edge.

  Just then, another mouse, smaller but wiry, leaped out from behind the blue bowl and fastened its razor teeth onto Balcombe’s hand. Crying out in pain and fury, the mage flung the mouse from his finger and dashed it to the floor, where it staggered around, dazed.

  Meanwhile, the mouse on the counter was still trying to drag the bracelet to the edge, but getting nowhere. Looking up at Balcombe’s enraged visage as his hand reached toward it, the rodent gave one last desperate look at the bracelet and threw itself off the counter.

  But the mouse never landed. In midflight, it changed before Balcombe’s startled eyes into a hummingbird and flittered away through the narrow loophole and out of the castle. Balcombe felt his stomach lurch.

  These were not mice.

  Frantic, the mage looked around on the floor for the other mouse. “Who are you really? What do you want?”

  He finally spotted the mouse as it skittered under the doorway to Balcombe’s chamber and the castle beyond, disappearing from the mage’s sight. He had no hope of catching the frightened mouse.

  Unless the dwarf and half-elf had somehow escaped and taken the form of mice, two others now knew he had the bracelet. But there were two others: the woman and the kender who had escaped his web! The dwarf and half-elf were safely locked away in the castle jail. Balcombe had assumed his shadow monster had done its work on the other two. Could they be powerful enough or lucky enough to have escaped it?

  Worse still, they undoubtedly heard his conversation with Hiddukel. Though they could have no clear idea where the altar was, beings with the power to polymorph could undoubtedly discover its location. To be safe, he must get to the altar, make the transfer, and take LaDonna’s place on the conclave immediately, thereby raising himself above the influence of any provincial mage in Tantallon or beyond.

  Balcombe prepared for his departure as hastily as possible, but two questions burned in his thoughts like a flame that could not be extinguished.

  Who were the woman and the kender, and how much did they know?

  PART III

  Chapter 14

  The Chase

  After turning into a sparrow once again, Selana hovered out of sight and observed Balcombe as he leaped from a parapet outside his window, the bracelet plainly visible on his wrist. Obviously employing a spell of flying, he soared just above the treetops north of the village, mingling among the gray clouds that had descended since morning. He seemed headed deeper into the mountains, following the banks of the large mountain stream that cut between the castle and the pristine town of Tantallon.

  Selana counted the passage of two minutes, then flew after him, maintaining a distance she hoped was beyond the range of any detection spells he might have cast.

  So close! She’d held the bracelet in her teeth! Her heart ached at the memory.

  The sea elf felt a momentary twinge of guilt over leaving Flint and Tanis behind in the jail. The dwarf, a fatherly sort, seemed as kind as anyone she’d met since coming to the surface, in spite of his occasional grumpiness. She suspected much of it was bluff and bluster, since he seemed sincerely anxious to make amends and retrieve the bracelet. She was sorry to cast him to the fates.

  The half-elf was a different sort.… She had never met anyone like him before. Fire and ice. Infuriating. Impatient. Intriguing.… A great flame, stoked from the soul, burned in his elongated eyes. He was a young man driven by extremes, by the best and worst passions. For some reason she could not fathom, she seemed to bring out the worst in him, which saddened her.

  She knew that her real responsibility was to her brother and her kingdom, and if she did not follow Balcombe immediately, before the potion wore off and the evil mage got away, the cause for which they all had struggled would be lost.

  With any luck, the kender would manage to rescue his friends. Under any circumstance, he seemed the type to always land on his feet, no matter how dire the situation. The kender was resourceful and undaunted, though this was tempered by a streak of … irresponsibility wasn’t quite the right word, she thought. He was easily distracted. Still, she had a flicker of hope that he could help his friends, and she felt there was little more she could do on that score than hope.

  Hope, it seemed, was the mainstay of her strategy now. She could only hope that her potion would last long enough to track Balcombe. She could hope that when the potion did expire, she would have enough warning to reach the ground without getting killed. She had to hope that Balcombe was not aware he was being followed. And she had to hope that, if and when she found Balcombe in his lair, she could retrieve the bracelet and escape.

  As they traveled, they seemed to be following the same valley consistently. They had not yet veered away from the main branch of the stream that ran through Tantallon. If I do lose him for some reason, Selana decided, I will continue following this stream. It seems to be Balcombe’s navigator, and at least I won’t get lost.

  She found herself watching the mountains more and more. Selana had never seen peaks like this before. In her native kingdom, anyone could swim above the undersea mountains easily, but they were largely barren and their peaks and ridges were worn smooth by the tireless motion of the water. These were bold, jagged, and vibrant with life. Still, more than anything else since leaving the sea, this curious flight reminded her of home.

  Castle Tantallon was perhaps thirty minutes behind her when Selana began to feel oddly heavy and her vision grew clouded. The potion! She knew in a flash that it must be wearing off. Unable to still a stab of fear, a pulse pounding in her ears, the sea elf immediately dipped her feathered head, tucked her wings, and nosedived straight toward the moss-covered earth.

  She nearly made it.

  Past the top branches of firs and budding aspens, just above a grassy glen near the banks of the stream, the sparrow turned back into a panic-stricken sea elf. She tumbled more than eight feet through the air, indigo cloak fluttering behind her, and crashed into a large, prickly thicket.

  With a scream of searing pain, Selana sprang from the shrubbery, but her robe was caught up in pointy thorns. Tears streaming from her eyes, nearly hysterical, she tugged frantically at her robe, which was already in tatters from the encounter with the satyrs and the chase through Tantallon. She managed to finish the job and tear it beyond repair. Flailing, thrashing, yanking on the shredded cloth, she screamed with the frustration and exhaustion that came from days on the road with little sleep and even less food. The small bit of cape that remained around her neck she tore loose and flung into the malevolent bush, venting her anger slightly.

  Her silver-pale hair was tangled and hung in limp strands about her sweaty, dirty, scratched face. Wearing nothing but a thin, dun-colored tunic that came to mid-calf, the princess of the Dargonesti elves dropped to her knees and wept great sobs.

  “Now what am I to do?” she wailed skyward. Balcombe was long out of sight, and she had only a slim idea of where he was headed: a hideaway upstream, though it could be miles and miles away. Curled into a ball, her head cradled in her scratched hands, Selana cried until her tears were spent and she felt an eerie calmness overtake her.

  She had no food, no shelter, and no magic
spells left to cast; weary to the bone, she needed sleep to restore her magic. If she had any hope of reaching Balcombe before it was too late to either retrieve the bracelet or save Rostrevor, she would have to travel overland on foot. She could scarcely face the prospect. Vexed, Selana snatched up a fistful of pebbles and hurled them into the stream with tremendous frustration.

  The young sea elf felt lost, far from her people, farther still from anything the least familiar to her life beneath the sea.

  Selana touched her tongue to a salty tear that pooled above her lips and smiled sadly, remembering the days spent frolicking in the sea with her family, especially her elder brother. Semunel loved to tease her; just as she got close in a game of tag, he would shapechange into a dolphin, the form all Dargonesti had the natural ability to assume, but used mostly to flee from predators. He always swam faster than she, dodging through coral reefs and the many shipwrecks that littered the sea floor, always one length ahead, eluding her grasp.

  When she was a very young sea elf, she would cry and complain to their father, the Speaker of the Moons, who would chastise Semunel.

  “All members of the Dargonesti royal house must be above ridicule or defeat, even from each other,” he would say sternly.

  Afterward, Semunel would poke her when their father wasn’t looking. “You are a spoiled princess, little sister. One day Father will not be around to fight your battles for you,” he would goad. Just when she thought she would go mad with fury, he would grin and seize her in a fierce hug and say, “But I will always be there for you, Selana.”

  The corners of Selana’s mouth turned up in a bittersweet smile. “Perhaps Semunel was right—maybe I am a wee bit headstrong and used to having my way,” she mumbled reflectively. “I wish he were here to help me now.”

  She remembered showing him the formula she had found for the bracelet. When she told him of her intentions on his behalf, he all but ordered her to abandon the plan.