A Sorcerer and a Gentleman

by Elizabeth Willey

  Dewar’s cloak had a deep hood. He had pulled it over his head and muffled himself up so well that in the waning light he appeared to be nothing more than a taller rock among the many which littered the hillside. His eyes were open; he had watched the sun set indifferent to the beauty of its going and now watched the coming of night with the same blankness. His thoughts were all within himself. There he revolved slowly in a circle of anger, disappointment, fear, self-hatred, disgust, and grief, going from link to link in the chain until he had returned to the beginning again.

  He wanted to leave this place, and he knew he could not without dishonoring himself so thoroughly that his next goal would have to be self-destruction. Yet his allies, sometime friends to him—and his father, his unexpected father, finer than any sire Dewar had never expected to find, who had refused to use sorcery today and been defeated without it—he could not leave them without a word of explanation or excuse, and there was none. His place was somewhere below, there among the wispy lights and sparks of the armies.

  But with which army? Free or captive?

  His friends, his chosen companions … his father, his blood-kin, his own kind.

  Dewar moaned softly and put his head on his knees, presenting a lower profile to the night wind.

  It was thus that Ottaviano found him after the gibbous moon had risen above the eastern mountains and made Dewar’s and the thorn-tree’s shadows hard and bright.

  Otto stopped a little distance away and looked at him for a time, noting his hunched posture, and then dismounted, threw a blanket over his horse’s back, and let him go at the grass with Dewar’s. Otto walked slowly to Dewar’s side and squatted on his heels, looking over the night-flooded landscape.

  “I’m sorry,” Otto said softly.

  Dewar did not acknowledge him.

  Prospero had been quiet and dignified giving orders to his captains to surrender. He had unknotted a slew of sorceries, with Gaston only to witness, and loosed his bindings of the weather. Otto had felt the world twisting around him, half a mile away, and before his eyes a flat, throbbing dark bar, one of those that tumbled and swept, had dissolved. Prospero was a fool, thought Otto, or playing a deeper game than just this war. With such power, why surrender?

  Golias and Herne had called Dewar a traitor that night at the staff meeting. Gaston had said only, “There was no treachery here today,” and ordered them to be silent. Herne desired ardently to kill Prospero, and he was pissing angry at Gaston for interfering. Golias … well, Golias would have been as happy to see Gaston dead as Prospero; Otto couldn’t fool himself about that. Or Otto himself, maybe. Golias hated Landuc more acidly than ever.

  Golias said he would find Dewar and haul him back here for an explanation, and Ottaviano had jumped in and said he’d find him. Gaston nodded at Otto and said, “Go, then,” and had Golias begin organizing patrols to hunt down the loose tags of Prospero’s forces.

  So Ottaviano had gotten a fresh horse and ridden up this hill.

  “Mighty strange war,” Otto said after Dewar had remained silent a long time, “when the best sorcerer in Pheyarcet swears off sorcery and loses.”

  Dewar said nothing.

  “He’s a good strategist,” Otto went on, “but the Marshal’s that much better, and Prince Josquin turned up where he wasn’t expected, just like the Marshal planned.” He paused. “Prince Josquin’s not the twit I thought he’d be. And the Marshal is a lot smarter. I guess living as long as he has you learn to look beyond your nose or the end of next year. Maybe Prospero would’ve lost even if you hadn’t been here. Maybe not. We’ll never know.” He was nattering. He stopped himself.

  Otto waited, but Dewar was stone-silent.

  “I was thinking,” Otto said, “if you’re not busy, you might want to come to Landuc with me, seeing as Luneté and I have to go take oaths and stuff. Might as well spend the winter there, getting cultured. It’s a lively town. I know people you ought to meet: there was this surgeon’s daughter, Zebaldina, that ran a bathhouse, and she used to—anyway, think about it.”

  Dewar hadn’t moved, hadn’t indicated he was alive.

  “It’s been a long year,” Otto said. “More’n a year of killing people. I kind of think that’s enough.” He paused and said, “Well, come by my tent. I’ve got a bottle of Ascolet mountaintop sunshine I forgot about and it’s not safe to drink that stuff standing up or alone. All right?” Dewar was still motionless and wordless. Otto nodded and stood, satisfied, and mounted his horse and rode away.

  Dewar had heard him, he was sure. Otto had used the meeting to assure himself that Dewar wasn’t now under a geas or spell. There was nothing detectable. Earlier, probably; it seemed the most likely explanation, that Prospero had hit him directly and hard and Dewar was ashamed and embarrassed at being invisibly but painfully defeated. Or perhaps, Otto thought, the geas Dewar had spoken of had been more limiting, more stringent, than Dewar had known. But he’d come around, Otto was sure of it.

  When Otto had gone, Dewar continued to sit. The moon rose at his back. He watched the shadows move.

  A scrabbling sound and a stone bouncing down the hill past him next interrupted his musings. Had Dewar lifted his head and looked, he would have seen a cloaked and helmeted squire or messenger on a wheezing horse. The newcomer gasped, “Oh!”

  Dewar stared ahead, his chin on his hands still.

  “I thought you to be a rock, sir.”

  He said nothing.

  “I pray you tell me, sir,” the squire continued, coming closer, “if that be Prince Gaston’s army I see encamped there …”

  There was no answer, and the squire, frowning, dismounted and stood beside Dewar, bending, thinking perhaps he was some deaf, flockless shepherd who sat here out of habit or madness.

  “Sir—” and stopped. This statuelike man wept; the starlight glistened on dampness on his face and beard. “Sir,” said the squire, more gently, “I beg your pardon for hectoring you, but I must know if that is the Fireduke’s force below.”

  Dewar heard nothing, walking again through his mental circuit of fear and castigation.

  “What grieves you, friend?” asked the squire softly then, going to one knee and touching his arm gently, pitying him. Leaning around, eye met and spoke to eye, and finally Dewar blinked.

  “Who are you?” he whispered hoarsely.

  “A messenger, sir. I am sorry that I interrupt you. I must know if the lights I see there are the army Landuc has sent to oppose and throw back Prince Prospero.”

  “It is both armies, or none,” Dewar said. “Gaston has taken Prospero and victory, and their forces that were divided in violence on the field today are one uneasy mass tonight.”

  “Oh …” said the messenger. “Prince Prospero—defeated? Taken, you say?”

  “Captive.” Dewar closed his eyes. What could he do? What could he do?

  The messenger’s pale eyes studied him. “These tidings sadden you, I do believe.”

  “It is a sad business that sets men of the same blood against one another.”

  “It is. Were you of Prospero’s company, then?”

  “No,” whispered Dewar. “I’ve done him no harm, though, nor any great good. Whom do you seek?”

  “I bore a message from Landuc which, it seems, is not needed now.” The messenger’s head bowed.

  Something tickled the side of Dewar’s arm, some little inconsistency in the world which tingled up to his neck and brain and drew his attention from the emptiness before him to the messenger kneeling at his side. He wore no livery, just plain, rough clothing, and his blown horse was no fine animal. Cloak, boots, legs were all bespattered with muds and clays from every highway between here and the capitol. From beneath the helmet pale wisps of sweat-draggled hair stuck to cheeks and neck.

  “A message,” Dewar said.

  “It matters naught now. I am too late.”

  Dewar reviewed their conversation and studied the messenger more acutely. “Your message was for Prospero,” he g
uessed.

  A flash of alarm came and went in the messenger’s face as he stood swiftly, and Dewar rose too.

  “My destination is secret,” said the messenger, and his hand was on his dagger.

  “No longer. Am I correct? You bore some word for Prospero and are too late arrived for your word to benefit him. Any message to Gaston would have been relayed by means of the blood-alloyed Keys his kin employ to Summon and hold one another’s attention.”

  The messenger grabbed the horse’s bridle and began to mount. Dewar ducked around the animal and prevented him.

  “What was your message and from whom? I would hear of another’s shortfall today.”

  “My message shall never be spoken,” began the other, and Dewar interrupted.

  “Does Prospero have allies, friends still, in Landuc?”

  They stared at one another in the milk-light of the moon. Slowly, making a decision, the messenger removed his foot from the stirrup and put it down again. “Aye,” he breathed.

  “In truth.”

  “A few only. The Emperor hath long besmirched his name and mired his brother’s brilliance with muck. Other things too have drawn from Prospero’s camp those who would have supported him—time foremost among their reasons now. It is not long since the Emperor usurped the throne, but people have nearly made themselves forget that usurpation.”

  “None would dare openly support Prospero.”

  “One only. You have little knowledge of Landuc, friend—if you are that—”

  “I know not if I can be anyone’s friend, but to Prospero I owe a debt which I must discharge. Tell me your tale.”

  “You must first tell me yours.”

  Dewar studied the other’s thin, white face and then said, “It is brief. I am a sorcerer, who fought with Ottaviano of Ascolet—”

  “That Dewar of whom I’ve heard.”

  “I’m famous? Or perhaps there’s another of the same name. I fought for a free Ascolet, but Gaston was too much for us. When he offered Ottaviano a kind of mercy, it seemed best to take it, so Ottaviano now is Baron, Golias Prince—and the price of the Emperor’s compassion was to come here to oppose Prospero. I had other affairs and went to tend them. But I returned here to keep Ottaviano alive if my sorcery could do that, for he has been like a friend to me; and for that have I fought on Landuc’s side, yet without allegiance, against Prospero. We never met until he had a Sylph blow me to him some nights past, to his quarters where we dined and chatted amiably. He quizzed me then about my kin, and sent me away saying he’d no desire to challenge me as he’d intended. Then today he came to me here, as I stood preparing to do battle with him as sorcerers do and to raise forces to oppose his. He said he desired a truce between us, us two, so that we’d use no sorcery today. For his reason he gave a cause I can neither adopt nor reject: that he is my father. I bind on you silence in this matter: you will tell no one, neither that you have met me nor of what we have spoken here tonight,” Dewar finished, and laid with his last words a geas on the messenger.

  “Indeed you are a sorcerer,” whispered the messenger, shivering as the geas fell. “On my honor I will say nothing.”

  “You cannot, now. Tell me of your message.”

  “My father, Lord Gonzalo, has long been Prospero’s staunch supporter, to the extent that he has been all but exiled from Landuc to his country estates where we are watched and whispered at. Yet he still has friends in Court, and received word by one of them that Prince Josquin had been sent to Madana to raise there an army equal again to Gaston’s and to lead it here, over the Roads open to those who’ve survived the Fire of the Well, to join with Gaston and secure victory for Landuc. My father sent me to warn Prospero of this; I know Prospero, he knows me—’twas I as his page gave him the very stirrup-cup on that Fortuna-cursed day he fled Landuc—he has never been less than a friend to me, and I knew that an I bore him this word he would penetrate my disguise and trust me. I left the day after Prince Josquin did. I have failed.” The messenger’s mouth twisted, then pressed together tightly. He turned away, and Dewar saw his hand go to his eyes, wiping at sudden tears. “Ah …” he sighed or coughed or sobbed.

  “Lord Gonzalo’s a name I heard once or twice in Landuc when I was there years ago,” Dewar said, “but of you I have not heard at all.”

  The messenger laughed, a high, strained sound.

  Dewar blinked.

  “You’re a woman!”

  “Aye, so is half humanity. I’m Lady Miranda, Lord Dewar. Our fathers are friends. Let us be so.”

  Dewar stared at her, surprised and then admiring. Finer-boned and fairer than Luneté of Lys, Lady Miranda was clearly her superior in bottom as well.

  “So you rode, overland, all this way.”

  “Yes. I’ve rested little, and now I fear to rest, for if I’m found hereabouts it will be the certain death of my father. There is none but would guess I’m here for treason of some degree. Twenty—no, more—nights and days of sleepless riding and I have lost count of the horses.” She sighed. “And for naught.”

  “How did you find your way here?”

  She smiled. “Why, I have a guide: a ring my father had of yours long ago, a sorcerer’s ring which leads the bearer to the owner. It, alas, takes little reck of bridges and tracks, and so I have tacked and come about perhaps needlessly, wasting hours I fear—”

  Dewar took her hand as she lowered it from her face and bowed over it deeply.

  “Lady Miranda, I salute your bravery, your loyalty, and your devotion.”

  “All naught, Lord Dewar. Prospero is taken, and all’s naught.” She shook her head slowly, resigned to grief.

  “Not yet. He lives.”

  “Not long. The other part of my embassage is that the Emperor, despite Prince Gaston’s vehement dislike of fratricide, will grant Prospero no boon but a quick poison. The Emperor’s men are threaded through the Marshal’s command, and one at least hath wherewithal to carry out Avril’s will.”

  Dewar’s breath went in. He stared at her. “You are certain.”

  “It is reliable news, my father said. —Soft. Someone comes; a horse, hear—”

  The horse was trotting toward them from the north, along the slope and upward.

  “Who’s that?” Dewar called.

  A snort answered him, and the horse became visible as it left the shadow of an overhang below. Saddled, bridled, and huge, he was black as coal in the moonlight, a ghostly thing but for the sounds of his heavy hooves.

  “Hurricane!” Lady Miranda exclaimed.

  “What?”

  “Prospero’s horse, a marvelous beast.”

  Hurricane had veered toward them. He picked his way among the stones and nodded his head, whickering, at Dewar. Dewar stroked the animal’s long neck. Prince Gaston rode a horse as big, and Prince Herne another nearly so: it seemed impossible that such a large creature could be as docile under a rider as this affable fellow.

  “That is no mortal horse; Prospero hath ridden him since I was a child and years before,” Lady Miranda said. “Ho, dost remember me? Out of place, out of garb, yet in heart unaltered.”

  Hurricane snuffled her hand and stood quietly.

  “What can this mean? Has he fled the camp? Or what …” Dewar murmured, and checked the saddle for some note or sign. “Perhaps Prospero sent him away.”

  Lady Miranda nodded. “To you, Lord Dewar, I would dare say.”

  “Then welcome, Hurricane, and help us with whatever I fear we plot. No, there’s no plotting needed—it’s all as obvious as the moon.”

  “Which will only be obvious until the sun rises,” Lady Miranda said, “and if we’re to accomplish what I hope you intimate, we’d best be about it ere dawn.”

  “You have this ring of Prospero’s.”

  “Yes. Here it is.” She took it from beneath her gambeson, on a thong around her neck.

  “Mmmm.” Dewar turned it in the moonlight. A line of fire seemed to run from it in a straight line to Gaston’s camp.
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  “But how we might get into their camp—” Lady Miranda began sadly. “Though you’re a sorcerer,” she added. “You might make us invisible.”

  “Us? No. No one need be invisible. And you mis-speak. It’s not their camp, strictly speaking, for I am of their number.”

  Lady Miranda had had a panicked split-second of fear that he would betray her and then understood his meaning. “Ahhh,” she whispered.

  “He is confined now. Sorcerously. I have confidence that I can break that spell.”

  “By yourself cast—”

  “No. By Ottaviano, who—”

  “He studied with the petty sorceress Neyphile; this my father knows.”

  Dewar lifted an eyebrow; it was interesting, if true. Otto did seem to know something of the Art, remarkable here. “Perhaps. At any rate he knew enough to do what I could not, would not: Bind Prospero. He’s doubtless Bound still, but a Binding may be loosed.”

  Lady Miranda nodded. “So you may go to him, and free him—and then what?”

  Dewar looked over the camp, chewing his lip.

  “Hurricane, were he with you—Prospero might use him to escape—”

  “Prospero might use any number of means to escape. He could open a Way, for example, and leave no trail behind.”

  “For that would he not need a glass or fire? Were I holding him or any sorcerer, I’d keep those from him.”

  Beautiful, brave, and intelligent: Dewar’s opinion of Lady Miranda rose with each word that fell from her lips. “True. Fire’s easily made. Hurricane would better serve by carrying you, Lady Miranda, away from here.”

  “I would not flee.”

  “I’m sure, but on the other hand you’ve much to lose by staying. You said if you were seen, the penalty on your house would be severe.”