EXILED Wizard of Tizare

by Matthew J. Costello

  “Rest easy,” Falon told the old mrem. “I’m here to learn about my predecessors, the rulers of the great cities.”

  Then the chunky old fellow bustled about, chuckling to himself, pleased as could be to have a visitor.

  “Why yes, Your Highness. I mean it’s all here,” he said, gesturing to the stacks and stacks of parchments. “The battles, the first wars for the land, the establishment of the new cities.”

  “My father,” Falon said quietly. “I want to learn about my father.”

  The old librarian seemed embarrassed. “Yes ... well, there is material about Talwe, though he is not, if Your Highness will pardon me, part of the royal lineage.” Patriorr seemed embarrassed. He tried to recover. “I believe there is some recent scholarship about your mother, before she left for Pleir. But everything afterwards is gone—” He cut through the air, as if slicing the old documents away. “Gone, destroyed.” He looked up at Falon, “A terrible thing to do to important historical documents.”

  Falon nodded. “Let’s start with the ancient kings and their wars then, until we get to more recent eras.”

  Patriorr nodded. “You should start with the Black King, if I may be so bold to suggest to Your Highness. The city was not such a good place to be then.”

  Falon followed the old librarian as he walked down a dim corridor lined with wax tablets and scrolls. Two small windows near the top of the large room sent a dull diffuse light spilling down. It would be next to impossible to read anything down here.

  “Yes ... just give me some time ....” Patriorr took an old ladder and carried it to some shelves near the back. Falon watched him climb up, muttering to himself, shaking his head, before fiddling through a great batch of the wax tablets. “Some are, of course, mostly illegible. I try to inspect them, save them from fading away. It’s not easy, though, Your Highness, not when it’s just me.”

  “Well, I’ll see what I can do about that,” Falon called up to him.

  “Ah, here we are,” Patriorr said. “It’s very old but it appears in quite good condition. These will make excellent reading, Your Highness.” Patriorr stacked the fragile tablets on his burly arms and climbed down, grumbling to himself all the way. When he reached the ground he said, “Will you read them in your chambers or—”

  “No,” Falon said, grabbing a rough chair that sat in front of a table filled with tablets and well-chewed chunks of trumpeter fowl.

  He pushed them aside, gently, to make room for Patriorr’s load.

  “Well, I didn’t expect—” the librarian said.

  “Just go about your business,” Falon told him, “and pretend that I’m not here.”

  Patriorr shrugged and put down the tablets.

  Falon picked up the first one.

  And slowly, with a growing sense of wonder, he began reading.

  •

  Every day, at the same time, Falon made his way down to the library. He did, though, make a few changes.

  Torches would be dangerous around the tablets, but he had extra windows cut into the thick walls, putting in great panes of the clearest glass that Tizarian artisans could fashion. He also ordered more tables for Patriorr, and part of a storeroom was taken over to be used for storage of the more fragile records.

  So after dealing with the remarkably small number of decisions required of him, most of them regarding business matters and citywide festivals, Falon could wallow in the richness of the history preserved on the tablets.

  One day was spent learning of the founding of Tizare, the bloody feuding between three families for control of the wealthy area. And there were stories of the other cities, most of them secondhand and rich with an overlay of myth and exaggeration. Was Ar really founded on a spot where a dragon was killed? Did all the mrem really come from two small islands in the Southern seas?

  Then whole cycles of the moon were spent reading the flat, brutal account of the first great war between the mrem and the liskash.

  It had been so close, and only intervention from some magical, mysterious force had turned the tide in the great battle for the Western cities.

  Most of the kings considered it the end of the threat from the Eastern Lords.

  But we know better than that now, thought Falon. Soon, a year had gone by, and still Patriorr kept the tablets piled on Falon’s desk. He learned what little he could of his mother—just another palace worker save for her extraordinary beauty ... and her headstrong, stubborn nature—

  He smiled when he read that....

  He learned of the Black King’s mysterious death, surrounded by his ‘most loyal’ ministers, one of whom had poisoned the corrupt old king.

  Such was the foundation of Tizare.

  Finally, Falon came to the end of the tablets he had asked for. There were still thousands of others, detailing events big and small in the history of the western cities. But he had learned enough of his history to have a sense of who he was to be, the mistakes to be avoided, the traps and perils of kingship.

  It was simpler, he thought fondly, tending the herdbeasts on top the windy peak of Mount Zaynir.

  And it was as he sat there, staring at the tablets, that Elezar came rushing down to the library with news that would shake Falon out of his lethargy.

  “Falon—” Elezar said, having been told enough times to call him by name and not title, “I have news that concerns you.”

  Falon looked up, rubbing his eyes and scratching his whiskers. He felt gritty and in need of grooming. (There were always fetching she-mrem eager to groom the royal fur, he thought, not without pleasure.)

  “Yes, what can this news of yours be?”

  “I have spies,” Elezar said slowly, “both in the villages and with the merchants who travel north and south. A runner brought me a message. A young warrior, a female who talks openly of removing the ‘traitor’ from the throne of Tizare.”

  Falon stood up. “And what does this warrior look like?”

  “Golden fur, cool green eyes, and accompanied by a small but powerful band of soldiers.” .

  “Taline ...” Falon said quietly.

  “I think it must be, Falon. We must take action. I’ll start organizing an army to meet hers and—”

  Falon raised a hand.

  “No. There’s been enough blood,” he said, gesturing at the tablets. “Enough. She’s coming for me, Elezar, for her promised revenge. Her army is simply to see that she doesn’t get stopped.”

  “You don’t mean that you’ll let her enter the city? At least let me—”

  “She wants me ... and she can have me. But not here. This poor city,” he said with a half-smile, “has had enough drama and spectacle.” He walked over to Elezar. “You may let her inside the gates—No, welcome her and her band. You can, if you wish, try to explain to her what I did.”

  “And if she still wants to see you ... to fight you ...”

  “Why then, you may tell her where I am.” Falon laughed. “Tell her that I await her pleasure....”

  •

  It was night, and Taline’s soldiers had spread out, searching the city wall for any sign of an alert.

  But it looked, she saw, totally quiet and peaceful. A few large torches burned at the great gate, and a few sleepy looking guards walked the ramparts.

  Very well, then, she said to herself. We will try entering the city just as any other band of wanderers might.

  She gave the order to her soldiers to begin marching down to the gate. She took the lead, letting the strange wave of feeling wash over her. The city seemed alien to her now. Once it had been her home, a place she would fight to keep free. Now, it felt like some hostile camp.

  She thought of Paralan ... his last moments, and Ashre and Caissir, vanished. And Falon.

  He would die. He had lived with the knowledge of her return and now she was ready to serve him her vengeance.


  Her hand closed around the sword ... her father’s sword.

  The guards noticed her party’s approach and began stirring, signaling to the gatekeepers. More guards started appearing, edgy looks in their eyes.

  “Should we draw our weapons?” her disheveled-looking captain asked her. She smiled at him. He and his mrem were used to raiding merchant caravans in the dead of night, or attacking other villages. The niceties of the Dance of Death would surely be lost on them.

  “No,” she said. “Have your mrem ready, but they should keep their hands off their weapons.”

  The burly captain nodded, then walked back to his soldiers, shaking his head disagreeably.

  They reached the gate.

  One of the guards took a step out, past the new wooden portcullis that was half raised.

  “Your business?” the guard asked, not altogether masking his fear.

  Taline spoke strongly, with authority. “I am here to meet with Falon.”

  The guards muttered among themselves, noticing that she didn’t use Falon’s title. “And who are you to demand to see the king?”

  She took another step closer, and the guards began to spread out.

  “I am Taline, daughter of Lord Rhow.” Her soldiers were now clustered behind her.

  “Welcome, Taline.” It was a voice from inside the gate.

  The guards turned to see who it might be.

  “Elezar,” she said, not with any pleasure.

  “Let them enter,” Elezar said to the guards, and they quickly moved aside.

  Taline moved past them, her soldiers snarling at the guards, enjoying their frightened looks, A few of her soldiers had their tails out, exposed, with the fur cut in a strange pattern.

  Taline walked up to Elezar.

  “I am here to meet Falon—”

  Elezar nodded. “I know that. But first I want to explain to you—”

  “You can explain nothing!” she hissed. “Nothing. You are just another opportunistic traitor—like him. Perhaps you too should die. ...”

  Her soldiers muttered eagerly at this.

  “You can listen, Taline, Your father was the traitor, not Falon. He—”

  “No!” she screamed. “I’ll not hear that. Just bring me to Falon.”

  “I can’t bring you to him, Taline. He’s not here—he’s gone—”

  “Coward ...” one of her soldiers laughed.

  “No,” Elezar said giving him a threatening look. Then he turned back to Taline. “He waits for you, Taline. Alone. Not in the city.”

  “Where?”

  Now she saw Elezar smile, enjoying her frustration. “He waits for you on Mount Zaynir.”

  HE SAT on a cold outcrop of blackish curarr stone. A few drops of rain fell, wetting the tips of his whiskers, the furry hollows of his cheek.

  Falon pulled his heavy cape closer, hoping that the icy rain didn’t get stronger.

  Below him, the herd stirred uneasily, feeling the unpleasant drops of water fall on them. The young mrem tending the herd-beasts had already taken refuge in a small cave.

  The lead uxan kept raising its great head, looking up at Falon, remembering him from earlier days. It looked at him, expecting him to move them to some shelter.

  Sorry, Falon thought, it’s not my job anymore.

  The rain started to pick up, big heavy droplets splattering on the black stone, beginning to soak his cape.

  The herd-beasts started clustering together, their mournful moaning adding to the eeriness of the mist shrouded mountain.

  I could close my eyes, he thought, and it could almost be as if it never happened. No Plano—the sly renegade—no Fahl, no Ashre, no Caissir, no Rhow, no king.

  And no Taline.

  But the changes he felt were more than the expensive weight of the heavy cloth wrapped around him. Falon the highlander was gone. Forever.

  And if Taline had her way, Falon the king would soon be gone also.

  And still, at night, he dreamed of her ... not wielding a black blade, but slipping off her kilt, coming to him....

  The rain fell harder, and now he was starting to feel cold and miserable. He tucked his head under his cape, but that was already sopping, and it felt clammy pressing against his fur.

  He was ready to go in search of a cave. When the uxen let out a terrific howl. Falon stood up.

  The lead uxan moved from side to side, then began pushing the herd off to the side ... clearing a path.

  Someone was coming.

  The rain was so thick, and the mist so dense, that Falon could barely see the herd. But then, just barely visible through the fog, he saw something moving steadily up the mountain towards him.

  And he didn’t need any hints of beast magic to know who it was.

  So this is how it ends, he thought. Another duel, not far from my village.

  And this time he knew he’d lose.

  She moved steadily up the hill, all alone, just as he knew she would come, She too wore a heavy cape, her head under a cloak.

  He thought of going down to meet her. But he had no interest in hastening the moment.

  If only there was something he could say ... some words that she would believe. But if Elezar—her father’s trusted captain—had failed to convince her, what chance would he have?

  The beasts watched the stranger’s approach with unusual interest, standing perfectly still.

  He saw her eyes, sparkling even in this gloom. “Taline ...” he said quietly. “I wanted to tell you ... to explain—”

  She shrugged her cape off~

  “There was no other way. Your father ... he tried to kill—”

  She undid her kilt, and Falon saw that her body looked leaner, tougher than ever.

  “It was a way for him to die with honor ... he knew that, he—”

  She threw her weapon down onto the wet sporass.

  “Your weapon,” she demanded, in a voice colder than the icy rain.

  He took a step closer to her.

  “Won’t you try to understand?”

  “Your weapon!” she yelled at him,’ her voice causing a few of the herd-beasts to scamper away, giving Falon and Taline nervous looks over their broad brown shoulders.

  Falon undid his cape, the water immediately soaking his fur. Then his kilt.

  And what have I been doing? he thought. Reading wax -tablets while whatever combat skills I had became a distant memory.

  No, he had no doubt who would win the dance.

  He unsheathed his sword—it was the same one he had used to fight her father—and he laid it on the ground, next to Taline’s, facing the opposite direction.

  Tiny rivulets of water streamed into his mouth.

  “Are you ready?” she said.

  He nodded. And she took some steps away from the weapons and went into position for the Dance of Death.

  He moved to his position, slowly, sluggishly.

  Taline started circling the weapons. With every step she hissed, and her claws pawed at the air, as if she was just about to pick up her weapon. A few times he nearly fell for her feint, rushing close to his weapon, ready to pick it up—only to see her standing there, sneering at him.

  “You’ve grown slow, Falon, very slow. It’s too bad the loyal citizens of Tizare aren’t here to see this splendid performance by their ‘king.’ ”

  It was true. He felt out of touch with the steps. Her moves surprised him.

  “Perhaps,” she said, “I will make this easy for you ....”

  She took a step toward the weapon, then another, until she seemed poised to pick up her sword. He scurried to catch up—and slipped on the grass.

  He looked up. Following the ritual steps of the dance, Taline gracefully lowered herself to her weapon. Falon tried to scramble to his feet.

 
But he was too late.

  Taline stood there with her weapon, ready to carry out the remaining steps.

  Falon tried to come close to his sword.

  Taline swung her sword through the air, while spinning around on one foot.

  The blow nearly sliced his arm off. He backed away.

  “You struck my father when his weapon was down, didn’t you, Falon?” she yelled, spinning again, sending her blade flying through the air while he ducked under it just in time.

  “No,” he gasped, wondering, how many blows before she catches me? “He lowered his weapon ... knew that I gave him an honorable—”

  She broke her step and brought the sword straight down, digging into the wet grass.

  Falon rolled away.

  Now he had a chance—if he wanted it. He ran to his weapon, hoping he could get it before she sent her sword crashing into his back.

  He snatched the weapon, his claws closing securely around the hilt. He turned.

  Taline smashed her blade against his, cursing now, her golden fur a drab brown from all the rain. She smashed again, and this time the blow sent Falon reeling backwards.

  But he couldn’t bring himself to attack her.

  She made a movement as if she was going to jab him. He brought his blade close to him, ready to parry.

  And then she brought her sword back for a surprise swing at Falon.

  There was no time for him to protect himself.

  “Stop— Taline—Falon—”

  She held her blade in midair.

  In the rain, the water streaming into his eye sockets, Falon couldn’t see who it was. Then the voice spoke again, and he knew.

  “Caissir ...” he said.

  He saw Taline still holding her blade above her head, her face still desperately grim.

  “And Ashre,” another voice said—a younger voice, but not the voice of a kit.

  “Ash?” Falon said.

  “Stay back!” Taline ordered. “We’re not finished here. Not until I kill Falon—”