The Wizard Test

by Bell, Hilari

  The answer was so obvious that Dayven stared at his tutor in astonishment.

  “Of course,” said the captain proudly. “A couple of swamps ought to slow those Cenzar snakes down a little.”

  “Wonderful,” said Reddick pleasantly. “I like a man who does his duty. Do you know whether the crops are in? We passed a few villages where they seemed concerned.”

  “They sent some men,” said the captain. “We turned them into a work crew. Why should we carry all the rocks? They put up quite a fight about our having blocked the stream, but we knocked that out of them soon enough. They’re at the other side of the lake now, digging to widen the place where the lake runs into the river so we can get even more water flowing.”

  “Did you get permission,” Dayven asked, “from the Guardians whose lands and men you’re tampering with? They’re responsible to the Lordowner for those crops. You can’t interfere with a Guardian’s duty.”

  “No wizard tells me what I can and can’t do,” said the captain. “By the Lordowner’s order, the army’s needs take precedence, and those farmers are working for the army now. We’ll take them with us when we leave. When the Cenzar warriors come, we’ll give their peasant kinfolk pikes and make the warriors waste some energy chopping them up. A chance to die in battle is more than they deserve, meddling with the destiny of the river like that.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Dayven. “They aren’t even the ones who built the water bridge — it was their ancestors. And who’s to say it wasn’t the river’s destiny to be divided? You were just too lazy to do your own digging, so you—”

  “Poxy wizard.” The guard’s fist was very fast and Dayven ducked too slowly. Light exploded behind his eyes and faded into darkness.

  Chapter 6

  “If you’re going to be a wizard you’ve got to practice a little humility.” Reddick’s voice was lower than usual, but it still hurt Dayven’s head. “That, or learn when to duck.”

  Dayven opened his eyes. The world spun. He shut them again and swallowed. “What happened?”

  “I talked fast and got us out of there. We might have ended up part of the work crew, except the captain doesn’t want a pair of wizards around all the time.”

  “He couldn’t do that,” said Dayven groggily. “As Lord Enar’s Watcherlad, I outrank him.”

  “Not anymore … apprentice.”

  Dayven winced. “So now what? I suppose you’ll want to warn the Guardians whose lands are threatened?”

  “Not exactly,” said Reddick. “The first thing we’re going to do is teach you how to heal yourself and get rid of that headache.”

  Dayven pressed his hand against his aching skull. “Can you heal me?”

  “I could, but you’re the one who will.”

  Dayven moaned. “I can’t even think, much less work magic.”

  “When you feel like it least is when you need a healing spell the most. Come on, kid. Call up some power. No one’s going to do it if you don’t.”

  Dayven glared at him. “My name is Dayven.”

  “Whatever you say, kid.”

  “Poxy wizard,” Dayven muttered. But he had decided he had no choice about learning magic.

  Reddick laughed. “Come on. The memory of wholeness is still there, in the nerves, the tissue. Your body knows how to be well. It wants to be. Give it power and let it find its way.”

  Reddick’s voice faded as Dayven turned his mind inward and sought power. It was harder, far harder, with his head aching so, but finally he found and freed it. Like slipping the cover off a jar filled with light. The light welled out and touched the pain-filled knot on the side of his head.

  The throbbing nerves, the muscles, the skin — the knowledge of how they should be was written into them, like a clerk’s ledger. As the power touched them, they found their way back to wholeness. Then the light receded. Dayven opened his eyes. The pain was gone.

  “Neat, huh?” said Reddick.

  “It was easy,” said Dayven, astonished. “Is healing always that simple?”

  “Just about,” Reddick told him. “Of course, that’s only with injuries. And only when they’re fresh. Once a wound begins to heal naturally, the flesh close to it dies; then there’s nothing you can do. If the memory of the right way to be is no longer in the body, all the magic in the world can’t heal it. People who aren’t wizards don’t understand that. They come to us with day-old wounds, sometimes with completely healed scars, and demand that we make them whole. That’s what your Master Senna did. He stuck with what he thought was his true destiny until his wound became infected — he was delirious when his friends brought him to us. We saved his life, but it was too late to heal his leg.”

  “But the Guardian’s oath allows healing,” Dayven said. “I wonder why he waited.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t as hypocritical as most,” said Reddick. “Almost everyone comes to us for healing, whatever they believe. And if we can’t heal them, the ones who went against their principles get even more angry. And there are other things we can’t heal directly, like fevers and diseases. With a fever it’s almost as if something living is trying to change the body to its own rightness. Herbs work better than magic on things like that, though magic can enhance the medicine’s effect.”

  “Will you teach me herbs?” Dayven yawned widely.

  “Healing takes a lot out of you,” Reddick observed. “Get some sleep. Yes, I’ll teach you about herbs, though they’re harder to learn than magic. It takes years of study to understand all…”

  Reddick’s voice seemed to blur and then vanish, as Dayven faded into sleep.

  The wind was blowing when he woke. The sun was just rising over the mountains that surrounded the lake. Reddick stood, staring over the water. “Feel that wind? It’s blowing right out of the valley behind us and across the lake toward the river. It began just as the sun rose. A dawn wind. I bet it blows like that almost every morning. I couldn’t have a more perfect setup.”

  “Huh? What?”

  “You do wake up slow, don’t you? I’ve got an idea, how we’re going to free those farmers.”

  “What? But what about spying on the Cenzar? If we tell the Guardians…”

  “They probably won’t do a thing. They’re too busy for ‘peasant problems,’ remember?”

  “Surely it’s more important…” His voice trailed off before Reddick’s steady gaze.

  “Kid, in good conscience, as a Guardian, could you leave those men prisoners?”

  Dayven’s eyes fell. “No.”

  “Good. Then your head is worse.”

  “But it isn’t,” Dayven protested. “I feel fine.”

  “Oh, no you don’t. In fact, you feel so bad we aren’t going to be able to travel for several days. I think I’ll go and tell the captain that. Get breakfast started. I shouldn’t be long.”

  It was almost an hour before Reddick came back. Dayven put the kettle on and explored their camp. It nestled in a small clearing at the opposite side of the lake from the river, on higher ground. Once he was out of the trees Dayven could see over the water to the Tharn encampment.

  He watched Reddick speaking to the captain for a long time, waving his hands persuasively. Reddick had seemed different when he was talking to the captain earlier. Meek. Almost foolish. An easy man to underestimate. The captain turned away, and the wizard bowed and went over to the peasants who were sitting with their ankles bound, eating breakfast.

  Reddick spoke with each man for several minutes, then rose and left the Tharn camp. He hadn’t spent long there, though it had to be important — he’d let Dayven cook.

  With a sudden start, Dayven remembered he was supposed to have breakfast ready when the wizard returned. He hurried back to the clearing and poured dried oats into the bubbling kettle. The porridge wasn’t quite done when Reddick arrived, but he was too satisfied to notice.

  “It’s going to work,” he announced as he carried a small log into the camp and dropped it. It let out a loud thock
when it fell, and Dayven realized it was hollow.

  “I feel it in my bones. And it’s one of the craziest schemes I ever came up with.”

  “What scheme?” asked Dayven. “What’s that log for?”

  “I’ll tell you. No, better, I won’t tell you. That way if… It’ll work better if you don’t know anything.”

  “About what?” Dayven threw the spoon into the kettle and glared at the wizard.

  “About the diversion I’m going to create tomorrow morning, while you sneak in and cut those farmers loose.”

  “What!”

  “I just told you; tomorrow, I’m going to cause a diversion and you’re going to sneak into the Tharn camp and free the farmers.”

  Dayven’s mouth opened, but no words came out. His tutor chuckled.

  “Sorry. Hey, to make it up to you, I’ll teach you a new spell. How about it?”

  “I am not here,” Dayven muttered obediently. “I am a shadow, the wind through the grass. I am not here.”

  Reddick stopped carving holes in the hollow log. “I don’t think you’ve got the idea. You’re saying you’re not here, but you’re still projecting your presence. This doesn’t make you invisible, you know. It’s just a way to make people … overlook you. Like you were a piece of furniture or a stump. Something that ought to be there, so it isn’t noticed. To do that you have to … contain yourself. Imagine that you’re shining all over with a bright light. Then throw a cloak of power over the light so none shines out.”

  Dayven sighed. “It had better be a good diversion.”

  “It should be.” Reddick’s eyes sparkled. “What do you think this is?” He held up the log. It now had several holes in it.

  “It looks like a flute,” said Dayven. “Only it’s too big for anyone to play.”

  “Exactly,” said his tutor. “Wind pipes, they call ‘em. Spookiest noise you ever heard.”

  “You’re going to distract them by playing the flute?”

  “Your hiding spell should help,” Reddick told him. “If you ever master it. You can practice it up in the valley this afternoon. I want you to find me a big jinot tree. A fallen one would be good, but if you can’t find one that came down recently, we’ll have to whack up a live one. I’m sorry for that, but there it is.”

  “What do you want a jinot tree for?”

  “You’ll see, kid. You’ll see.”

  Dayven lay in the bushes outside the Tharn encampment, knife in hand, trying not to shake so hard that he made the leaves rattle. His brown robe blended with the shadows in the colorless predawn light. The diversion was supposed to start at sunrise. It was almost sunrise now.

  The Tharn camp was beginning to stir. The cook had come out a few minutes ago and was building a fire. The peasants lay still, bound hand and foot in the center of the encampment, but something about their total lack of movement told Dayven they were awake and waiting. Reddick must have given them instructions when he talked to them yesterday. Dayven wished Reddick had given him more instructions. He wished the Guardian who warded these villages had looked after his people as he should. He wished the captain hadn’t been so cruel. Dayven wouldn’t have believed a Tharn officer would do something like this to people who should have been under his protection. He wished, passionately, that he was home.

  Mist rose off the lake, floating wisps that spun and vanished. Dayven felt the dawn wind against his face and heard, ever so faintly, a wailing moan.

  The Tharn cook heard it too. He rose and stood, looking over the lake. The mist was thickening. Had there been mist on the water yesterday? Dayven didn’t remember it.

  The wind gusted and the wind pipe sounded again, louder. Several men emerged from their tents and joined the cook; the captain was one of them.

  The mist swirled in the mounting breeze. Shouldn’t the wind be blowing it off? Most of the troop had gathered, staring across the lake. Was this the diversion? No one seemed to be watching the peasants. Now? Dayven took a shaky breath and stood, slowly. No one saw him. Now!

  “I am not here,” he murmured, starting across the open ground to the bound peasants. “I am part of this place. No one has reason to notice me.” He didn’t believe it himself, and he was far too frightened to summon power. Giving up on magic, Dayven ran softly to the small crowd of peasants and dropped down among them. The Tharn were staring over the lake, and none of them saw him.

  “This can’t work,” murmured a farmer. He steepled his fingers with automatic Cenzar courtesy as Dayven knelt beside him and cut frantically at the rope that bound his ankles. “I know that the Tharn believe in this foolish superstition — we spent most of yesterday making up ghost stories for them — but this is madness!”

  Ghost stories? Dayven wondered. But the Tharn were talking about ghosts.

  “…makes me nervous, Captain,” one of the men was saying. “I don’t fear the living, you know that. But when the lost ones walk they make trouble; you know that, too.”

  The rope severed. The farmer rolled to his hands and knees and crept toward the bushes. His clothes were dirty enough to blend in. Dayven crawled on to the next man.

  “But it’s daylight!” A rising wail from across the water interrupted the captain, but he took a deep breath and continued, “I don’t know what’s causing the mist, or that howling, but I do know that ghosts don’t walk in the day!”

  “But these are Cenzar ghosts,” several voices chimed in.

  “Big battle fought here, exactly today.”

  “Ended right at dawn, it did.”

  “Cenzar ghosts won’t like us tampering with their river.”

  “Peasants told us all about it.”

  “Look,” said the captain. “We are not going to let those grimy-handed weed-pullers…” He gestured at the peasants.

  The rising sun flashed on the blade of Dayven’s knife.

  He tried to run, but they caught him and dragged him back to the shore where the captain waited.

  “Well, wizard brat.” The wind ruffled the captain’s hair and whipped the waves. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the wailing. “I suppose your master is responsible for this … this wizard’s trickery.”

  Dayven set his teeth. But there was nothing to be gained by keeping silent. The plan was finished. He might as well tell the truth.

  “He probably is,” said Dayven. “Though I don’t know what caused the mist.” He gestured toward the billowing clouds. They were very thick now, and within them…

  Dayven’s voice died and he strained to see. He felt the blood drain from his face. The hard grip on his arms slackened and fell away, but he didn’t move.

  “Fates,” Dayven whispered. “Oh my fate, not this. He summoned ghosts!”

  There were forms in the mist. Transparently thin, with a greenish tinge to them, they danced and whirled, appearing and disappearing as they sailed across the lake.

  Dayven’s knees gave and he sank to the sand, ignoring the wild confusion around him.

  The Tharn ran, some for their horses, some simply away, into the woods and down the ravine or the river-bank.

  Dayven knew that the dead who had turned from destiny’s true path, traitors, those who fled their enemies in battle, and even those like the Cenzar, who worshipped false gods, would become ghosts, but he had prayed never to see one. Doomed to the frustration of their nebulous half-lives, their jealousy of the living manifested itself in cruel pranks. If a ghost attached itself to a particular person, it could torment them to madness, even suicide. And these were not Tharn ghosts, but proud Cenzar warriors; Dayven could see their hawk faces and gaping death wounds. One of them floated out of the mist and drifted toward him.

  Dayven closed his eyes.

  A thin sheet of something damp and sticky fell over his face. He opened his eyes and pulled it off. It tore, rippling limply in the stiff breeze. The smell was familiar.

  Dayven clenched his fists as rage filled him. The man-shaped forms whirled out of the mist all around him, but now he co
uld see the clumsy cutouts for what they were.

  The ghosts were layers of jinot bark!

  “I just cut a man-shape out of the tree,” Reddick told him. “And pulled the layers as fast as I could and tossed them into the wind.”

  Dayven didn’t comment. He wasn’t speaking to the wizard.

  They were riding down a valley on the other side of the mountains, a shortcut to the Cenzar city that would make up for the time they had lost. Reddick hadn’t told him about that, either, until they reached the path.

  “I would have told you, but I figured you’d get caught and I knew if you didn’t believe in the ghosts, they’d figure it was some kind of wizard’s trick.”

  “Which it was,” Dayven retorted. He remembered that he wasn’t speaking to Reddick, but it was too late now, so he went on. “A sly, stinking, cowardly trick, with no magic in it!” Not to mention Reddick’s insulting conviction that he was certain to get caught. Dayven had no intention of discussing that, ever.

  “True, kid, absolutely true. I’m sorry I scared you. Really.”

  Dayven wasn’t sure if he believed that or not. “I wish we could do more for them. Get their stream going, I mean.”

  “The men we freed will report to their Guardian. Maybe he’ll complain to Lord Enar. Even if he doesn’t, they’ve got a large enough crop to get by on.”

  “I know, but that’s not how it should be. It doesn’t feel right to leave like this.”

  Reddick laughed. “Resign yourself. Only a foo— only a Guardian would take on an army with two men, wizards or no.”

  Dayven gritted his teeth. Just putting up with his tutor’s so-called sense of humor was a test and a half! Then something occurred to him. “Reddick, where did that mist come from?”

  “From the lake. What did you think?”