EXILED Wizard of Tizare

by Matthew J. Costello

  And there, on the steps of the palace, stood Lord Rhow.

  Waiting. Knowing.

  Falon walked up to the guards at the gate.

  They didn’t hesitate to let him in. Falon turned around, seeing Elezar hurry over to join him.

  They squeezed through the crowd, and past the gates, which the guards clanged quickly shut.

  Falon said nothing to Elezar but walked as quickly as his aching body allowed him right up to Rhow. He saw the lord glance up at the palace windows.

  Taline, thought Falon. She must be in there. Perhaps she stands there, watching.

  Falon reached the bottom step. “The enemy has been defeated, my lord,” he said.

  Rhow took one step down. “You have saved the city, Falon—”

  “But there is still an enemy of the crown here, Lord Rhow.”

  The old lord’s face fell, his eyes looking down. “You have no more enemies here, Falon. The crown is yours—”

  Falon walked up the steps slowly, carefully, his eyes locked on Rhow’s. “No ...” he said softly. “It can’t be that easy.” Another step, and Rhow was just above him. “If it weren’t for the kit I’d be dead now ... at your hand ....”

  “Falon,” the Lord said, pleading, “I—”

  Falon pulled out his sword. He heard Elezar stir behind him, and a gasp went up from the crowd.

  He threw his sword down at the feet of Rhow.

  The noisy crowd grew quiet. Elezar had his own weapon out.

  The challenge had been made.

  There was nothing for Rhow to do. Slowly, almost painfully, Falon watched him slide his own bejeweled weapon out of its rich sheath.

  He let it fall carelessly on top of Falon’s weapon. Falon turned to address the now perfectly still crowd.

  “I, Falon, heir to the throne of Tizare, challenge Lord Rhow to the Dance of Death!”

  The crowd moaned, some shocked to see their hero turn into an heir, others just disappointed to see their wonderful festive mood replaced by this dark turn of events.

  Elezar came up the steps, hurrying two and three at a time.

  “Are you mad, Falon? Why are you claiming such a—” But Lord Rhow raised his hand, quieting him. “It is as he says, Elezar.” Then, looking at his brave captain. “Would you help us?”

  Elezar scowled at Falon, his eyes flashing in the morning light. “Please,” Rhow said.

  Elezar grabbed the two swords and held them up for the crowd at the gates.

  Then he carried them down the steps to the courtyard of the palace. While Rhow and Falon watched, standing together, Elezar arranged the swords, side by side, one facing north, the other south. Then he stepped back and, with the heel of his boot, carved a large circle around them.

  Satisfied with the arrangement, Elezar stepped back and awaited Falon and Rhow.

  “Are you ready?” Falon said, his voice cruel, cold.

  Rhow nodded.

  And together they walked down to the weapons.

  •

  Taline opened her eyes.

  “What ...” she said. “Where am I? What’s—”

  The old she-mrem patted her hand. “There ... rest easy ....” Then the strange she-mrem began chanting some grim dirge while running her gnarled fingers through Taline’s facial fur.

  “No ...” Taline said weakly. “What happened?” Then she heard the noise of the crowd outside the palace. She struggled to slide herself off the bed. The old nurse tried to stop her, but Taline pushed her aside.

  “No ...” She took a step, her wounds tearing at her with each step she took. With a terrible grimace on her face, she struggled to the open window overlooking the courtyard. She grabbed at the red curtain, her claws digging into it tightly.

  “What ... what is this?” she said, staring down at the courtyard.

  There was her father, moving in a slow circle, and facing him, Falon. Between them lay their weapons.

  “No ...” she whispered again.

  Once before she’d seen the Dance of Death. It had gone on for nearly the whole day, the circling, the feints, the posing, all so crazily ritualized, until those final moments where one duelist went for his sword.

  She turned away and started shuffling to the door.

  I must get out, get down there. Stop them. Why are they dueling? she asked herself. Falon saved the city ... my father is restoring him to his throne. What could be happening?

  The nurse pulled at her now, screaming some strange mumbo jumbo. But Taline was strong enough to pull away, shrugging off the she-mrem’s attempts to restrain her. “Let me be,” she hissed.

  Even here, in the great hall of the palace, she heard the cheers and yells of the crowd echoing, reverberating off the bare stone walls.

  Must hurry, she told herself. And stop them.

  The stairs were enormous, and she moaned when she saw them.

  Each step was agony. To walk down the staircase would be torture.

  She gritted her teeth and took the first step.

  She felt her wounds begin to flow again, moistening her bandage.

  One. Two. She counted each broad step.

  And all the time the. cheers and screams of the crowd grew louder and louder.

  Please, she prayed to the All-Mother. Please, let me be in time....

  •

  How many times had they circled, wondered Falon, each time drawing closer to their weapons?

  And all the time Rhow kept his eyes on Falon.

  But Rhow wasn’t responding to anything Falon did, he realized.

  Both of them were following the ritual steps, but Rhow seemed disinterested in the actual contest.

  The crowd, at first shocked, even repulsed, now watched with all the boisterous yelling they could muster.

  Elezar stood on the side, and he too watched Falon carefully. But where were Caissir and Ashre? He hadn’t seen them since those last moments before the rout of the mrem.

  Rhow hissed, startling Falon, who jumped back a few steps.

  The lord laughed.

  Yes, I’ve got to concentrate, can’t be caught not paying attention ... can’t be too edgy.

  No ... It can’t be like the last time.

  Of course, there had just been a small group of villagers watching him then, a couple of dozen, watching him fall into the trap so carefully placed by Tramin. He too had smiled and hissed, watching Falon grow more nervous, until he reacted to Tramin’s feint and snatched up the weapon.

  This was another chance. Another try. There was more than his throne at stake, he thought.

  There was his honor.

  Rhow took a step inside the large circle. Falon moved closer.

  And then another step.

  He’s getting ready, Falon thought. Then Rhow paused, stepping carefully onto one foot, letting his claws emerge, threatening, long and shiny in the brilliant morning light.

  The crowd was pressed flush against the metal gate. Rhow began to circle again.

  Easy, Falon told himself. He felt so tired. Just keep moving ... keep watching. His body felt drained—from his wounds, from the battle—and suddenly he felt as though he were about to lose this duel.

  Rhow looked in his eyes ... and he saw it too. “You’re tired, Falon,” Rhow whispered, breaking the unwritten rule against talking to an opponent. “Too many battles ... too little rest. I wished it had not—” he took a step closer to his weapon “—had not’ come to this. In the end—” another step “—I would have served you faithfully”.

  “After I was dead,” Falon answered, also sliding closer to the swords. They were only two small steps away. The Dance was drawing to a close. The crowd was perfectly still ... awaiting the end.

  Then Falon saw Rhow’s gaze rise, leaving his for the first time, going up behind Falon to the great entr
anceway to the palace.

  “No ...” Rhow said.

  Falon suspected a trick, but the twisted look on Rhow’s face seemed all too genuine. He turned.

  It was Taline, standing on the steps, calling out to both of them. She leaned against the wall for support.

  Falon turned quickly back to Rhow. .

  “Now—” the old lord said and he took a large step toward the weapons.

  And more, he reached down grabbing for his delicately inlaid sword.

  Falon moved quickly, shocked by the lord’s bold act. If Falon did not move, Lord Rhow would lose the duel in disgrace. But he could also kill Falon. Such a sudden move didn’t seem to make sense.

  Unless—and yes, Falon saw it then, as Rhow raised his weapon high enough for the entire crowd to see.

  He wanted it this way. He wanted the crowd to see him attack first ... taking on the shame....

  Falon picked up his own weapon.

  “Very well, Rhow …” we can fight....”

  And Rhow smiled, just as Taline’s screams filled the courtyard.

  They matched blow for blow, Rhow artfully dodging Falon’s best-aimed shots, and then hurtling him back.

  “They’ll get—” Rhow spit out as he smashed his blade against Falon’s, “a new king, Falon. This will leave them no doubt that you”—another blow—“deserve”—and again—“the throne!”

  Falon stretched out, bringing his sword around in a clumsily executed swing. So easy to avoid.

  Rhow lowered his weapon—looked at him—at Taline. “Your servant ...” he whispered as Falon’s blade struck home.

  Rhow fell to his knees. The crowd cheered, the terrible tension of the Dance ended.

  Elezar ran over to Rhow.

  Falon turned, and looked over at the palace steps. Taline collapsed on the steps, her cries still carrying above the cheers of the crowd.

  Falon let his sword fall to the ground.

  PLANS FOR Falon’s coronation began almost from the moment the invaders fled to their desert hideouts.

  The court functionaries and sycophants who had served Mineir with perfect loyalty were soon hovering around Falon, offering possible menus for the gala dinner, preparing an extensive guest list (pending, of course, a quick check of who may not be alive), and desiring Falon’s choice of wardrobe.

  It all would have swamped Falon had he not had other concerns.

  Taline was, according to the nurses and herbalists who attended her, beginning to heal, thank the All-Mother. But she had made one request of her attendants.

  King or not, she didn’t want Falon admitted to her chambers.

  So Falon was often found pacing outside her door, waiting news of her recovery, hoping to be admitted to see her … to explain.

  But it was an explanation that she didn’t want to hear.

  Then there was Elezar.

  Falon thought this loyal captain of Rhow’s might prove a formidable, perhaps even a deadly adversary. But Elezar had understood enough of what he saw in the courtyard to know that his master had provoked the duel with Falon. While the courtiers were buzzing around Falon, trying to ingratiate themselves and their services, Elezar pulled him aside and swore loyalty to him.

  He even offered to explain it all to Taline ... when she permitted such talk.

  And so, the days of jubilant preparation went on, with a morose Falon stalking the wide, empty halls of the palace, strolling outside Taline’s door, hoping to be admitted.

  It was the night before the actual ceremony when he decided what he was going to do.

  Tomorrow I shall be king ... and tomorrow I will enter her room and tell her everything.

  And even though he’d be king, the thought of storming her chambers filled him with dread.

  Perhaps he could cajole Elezar into joining him.

  The festivities began at dawn with the various guilds staging parades that wound their way through the streets of Tizare. Whole clusters of metalworkers, brick makers, and tradesmrem marched through the early morning streets at dawn, while street bands played horribly raucous music.

  An enormous platform had been erected in the center of the courtyard, with rows of seats surrounding it for the very wealthy of Tizare and the visiting dignitaries from other cities who dared travel with so many stories of invading bands.

  The three inns of the city opened their doors early to a booming business, and those pursuing more energetic pleasure found the boulevards filled with wide-eyed and eager she-mrem.

  And Falon, dressed in layers and layers of a heavy material, watched all the excitement build outside the palace.

  Soon, the plaza would fill with all the onlookers, the special guests would take their seats, and then some fat, taffy-colored mrem would run in and tell Falon it was time.

  And when that happens, he told himself, I will enter Taline’s room and demand that she hear my story.

  Falon stood there, enjoying the feel of the early morning sun on his body. The royal musicians, dressed in garish outfits of bright orange, took their places and began playing brassy music with fanfares and great rattling drumrolls.

  Street vendors gathered at the gate, selling simple fare to those not invited to the gala ball inside the palace itself.

  The White Dancers, Falon noticed, had taken their position by the platform, ready to observe and add the story of this day to their repertoire.

  Falon heard the steady pad of hurrying feet running into his bedroom.

  “They’re ready, Your Highness,” the perpetually nervous councilor sputtered.

  Falon turned. “Not ‘Your Highness’ yet,” he said with a smile. Then he grabbed his ceremonial sword off the bed and strapped it on.

  “Should I tell—”

  “Tell them I’ll be there presently. Have Elezar seat the dignitaries.”

  And Falon walked out of the room. He walked down the long corridor, down to where Taline lay, hidden away, unwilling to talk with him.

  He knocked on the door. Once, then again. Perhaps she was asleep.

  He gave it one last knock. And then ... “Taline,” he said, throwing the heavy door open.

  The room was empty. The bed was made, and shafts of light from the windows caught the tiny specks of dust swirling in the air.

  He spun around and started running down the corridor as fast as he could.

  The nurse’s room was a small alcove near where the chambermaids and other servants slept. He ran through the door.

  The nurse was sitting on the bed, packing her things into a small cloth bag.

  “Where’s Taline?” Falon demanded.

  She looked up slowly, as if she had expected Falon’s question.

  “She left,” the she-mrem said in a thick Southern accent. “In the middle of the night. She said to give you this....”

  The nurse went to a small table and picked up a small dagger. She handed it to Falon.

  The blade was completely black, as if it had been left in the fireplace.

  “What does this mean?” he asked. The old nurse shrugged.

  “I don’t know ... I just said I would deliver it.” The door pushed open behind Falon. It was Elezar.

  “Falon, everyone awaits ... the crowd is gathered. Come, why do you—”

  Elezar saw the blade in Falon’s hand.

  “Where did you get that?” he said quietly. Falon pointed at the nurse.

  “Taline’s gone ... she told the nurse to give it to me.”

  Falon looked at Elezar. “What does it mean?”

  Elezar took the blade.

  “It’s an old symbol, Falon. It means ‘I will come back.’ ”

  “Come back?”

  “’For my revenge—for your death.’ It’s called the knife of sleeplessness. You’re never supposed to know when your enemy will app
ear.” He handed the knife back to Falon. “Look, Falon, I’m sorry….”

  Falon turned the ugly blade over and over in his hand. “Falon, everyone is waiting....”

  Yes, thought Falon. And now I will get to wait too.

  He nodded, and followed Elezar out to the cheering mrem of Tizare.

  •

  After three full days of celebration, the city gradually returned to its normal day-to-day functioning, with a new and untried king ruling over it.

  The city, Falon found out rather quickly, tended to run itself.

  There were layers and layers of officials who carefully controlled every aspect of life in the city. All dealings, whether they were commercial, social, or political, went through a convoluted, and well-financed, seine of bureaucrats.

  The system probably was long overdue for change, but until Falon felt he understood how the whole massive operation worked, he thought he’d just watch it operate.

  Elezar was an invaluable help, guiding Falon through the diplomatic niceties, explaining why this or that well-padded official might actually be important to the city. He discovered, as all kings do, that they are as much a prisoner of their kingdom as a ruler.

  It should all change, he knew.

  Except he was constantly preoccupied with another matter.

  Taline!

  He was afraid, though Elezar told him that when she came it would be for a duel, not to simply kill him in the dark. But every day he crawled out of the royal bed, feeling like an interloper, expecting to see her standing there, her hands squarely on her hips, the look of death in her eyes.

  And so the days passed in Tizare, the citizens apparently happy with their ruler, the surrounding villages eager for protection from the city’s army, and the tradesmrem prospering.

  Falon devoted his time to reading the old parchments in the library of the palace. It was a dusty, musty-smelling room at the very bottom of the building.

  When he had appeared, the custodian, a wizened mrem named Patriorr who looked more like a prisoner from some dungeon, at first seemed scared to see Falon there.