The Simbul's Gift Page 9

  “Nonsense,” the Simbul muttered. She’d concede that offerings and sacrifices had their place, but only after a more direct approach had been tried and failed. “We mean no harm to you or your forest,” she shouted, and kindled her own lightning.

  “It’s not listening,” Bro advised from last year’s crumbled leaves.

  “You know what it is?”

  He might. He was Cha’Tel’Quessir, and even those who served her loyally kept secrets from humans.

  “No. I just … I just know it’s not listening. I hear it not listening.”

  A talent for misdirecting teleport spells and hearing a silence. Ebroin would bear closer examination when this was over. Until then …

  “If it’s not listening, then we’ll have to get its attention.”

  The Simbul extended her arm. The air burned with a sour smell. Her hair whipped around her, although there was no wind. In the lull between two heartbeats, lightning unfurled from her fingertips, loud enough to deafen, bright enough to blind her drow-gift senses.

  Alassra recovered quickly. She watched the creature beat its breast, heard it shake the forest with a roar. Then it raised its arms in a gesture she knew all too well. Without hesitation, she loosed another spell: not lightning, but a gout of storm-tossed water that swerved between the trees. In other times, other places, Alassra had destroyed a stone fortress with a similar spell. She expected less in the Yuirwood, where the forest’s own magic dampened great spells, and was satisfied when the watery fist pelted the creature solidly in the chest, fizzling its spell, and driving it into the night.

  Bro expressed his admiration with an awestruck gasp.

  “Can I trust you now, Ebroin?” she asked. “It will come back, maybe with its friends and relations. We don’t have much time.”

  Suddenly they had much less time, or much more. The creature had been part of the mischance that had brought them to this wayward time. Its departure untied a magical mooring rope, and now they were adrift in currents between past and future.

  It was a new experience for the Simbul: travel spells lifted a person above the temporal stream and blocked awareness of time’s passage. If she’d been alone, she would have savored the novelty, even the danger. But she wasn’t alone. Kneeling down, Alassra got one hand on Bro’s arm and laid her other arm across the colt’s neck.

  “Grab your sister! Don’t let go!” she commanded, and this time Bro obeyed.

  The colt and the little girl both shed her spells when the hand-to-hand link was complete. The girl shrieked and the colt lurched awkwardly to its feet. The Simbul dropped her staff—it was bound to her by a score of spells and would stay with her through any errant magic—and seized the colt’s halter.

  Zandilar’s Dancer had Alassra outweighed and out-muscled. She bitterly regretted that she’d used the last of her mild magic dealing with Bro’s temper. With the colt awake and panicked and her without the spells to quiet him, the best Alassra could do was keep his head level as he dragged them all through an eerie, changing forest.

  “I can hold him,” Bro insisted after they narrowly avoided a tree that began as a shadow and grew to maturity in half a step. “He’ll trust me.”

  It went against the Simbul’s judgment, but her way wasn’t working. Alassra exchanged her firm grip on Bro’s sleeve for a gentler hold on his sister’s hand. Zandilar’s Dancer was too spooked to trust anyone, but a second strong hand on his halter convinced him to stand still.

  “What happened?” Bro asked when several moments passed without changes in the trees around them.

  Zandilar’s Dancer had pulled them a hundred paces from the clearing and who-knew-how-many years. More than she wanted to count. It was still night, still the Yuirwood. The forest had changed around them, but the trees had grown, not shrunk.

  “We’re back where we belong.”

  “Back?” he asked, as if he’d understood nothing.

  “We were dis—”

  The Yuirwood burst into flames around them. For a moment—an eternal and terrifying moment—Alassra knew she was on fire, then the moment and the fire were behind her. She was alone, blind, numbly aware of her arms or legs, but not the cloth of her gown or the leather of her boots. Her mind was clear and empty. Every spell the Simbul had studied in Velprintalar had been burned out of her memory: Another new experience that she hoped not to repeat.

  Empty-headed as she was, Alassra remained far from helpless. Mystra’s Chosen were never helpless: The goddess’s protection flowed in their veins. Alassra’s senses, except for the forgotten spells, restored themselves. She assessed her injuries and analyzed the events that had overtaken her.

  She’d been wrong to tell Bro they were back where they belonged. They’d merely arrived in a time and place where the Yuirwood had seemed changeless—until a forest fire swept through it. The flames had stunned her, but whatever magic had carried them through time, had carried them too rapidly for the fire to harm them.

  To harm her.

  Alassra opened her eyes, hoping that her more fragile companions had survived.

  They had.

  The half-elf, his half-sister, and the colt lay on the nearby ground, lit by stars and moonlight that seemed—Alassra narrowed her eyes to study their positions—where they should be a few hours before dawn on the second day after her six hundred and second birthday. Smoke and soot clung to their clothes, but they were alive and, like her, unhurt. Her staff lay beside the colt. She picked it up and with a fingertip gesture brought a globe of cool light to its gnarled head. Wood, thanks be to Mystra, couldn’t be stunned, couldn’t forget the spells bound within it.

  Propping the staff against a tree-trunk, Alassra made a closer examination of her companions. When she was satisfied that her initial assumptions were accurate, she touched Bro’s arm lightly.

  He came awake with a jolt. “Fire! Fire! The cottage—”

  “Not here. Not now.”

  Wide-eyed and not breathing, Bro stared at her, stared beyond her, seeing things Alassra wished he could forget. Finally his ribs heaved.

  “Tay-Fay?”

  “Behind you. Zandilar’s Dancer, too. They’ve had a shock—too many shocks for one day and night—but they’re safe.”

  Bro started to say something, thought better of it, and shook his head instead.

  “Try to rest. I’m going to hie myself back to Velprintalar for a little while—just a little while. Do you understand how magic works, Ebroin? Even storm queens have their limits. I’ve got a spell or two left that would get us all home before the sun comes up, but it would be a rough ride for you, your sister and the horse. Easier and better if I go alone and come back when I can give you gentler passage.”

  He raised his head. The eyes that were so bleak and distant a moment ago, were lively now, glancing from the colt to the trees. Alassra knew, without magic’s aid, exactly what the youth was thinking.

  “Will you take Taefaeli with you now, please?” Bro asked.

  It was the Simbul’s turn to stare at the trees. The colt was a puzzle she wanted to solve, the means—the birthday gift—to lure Elminster to her privy chambers, but her wants paled beside Bro’s needs. Zandilar’s Dancer was the youth’s only link to his past and to the Yuirwood itself. He’d said it himself: he wasn’t a farmer and it was a rare Cha’Tel’Quessir who truly enjoyed city life.

  “I’ll come back at sunset. You’ll be here, won’t you, Ebroin?”

  “Take Taefaeli, please.”

  “I don’t know. It will be a strain, but I suppose I can take her now. Better she wakes up in a strange bed than a strange forest?”

  If Elminster had been there, or any of her sisters, especially Alustriel, they would have warned Bro that his secrets were exposed, but as it was, the youth had no advisors and walked calmly down the path Alassra prepared for him.

  “She likes honey on her porridge.”

  “Honey and porridge, when she wakes up. But what about you, Ebroin? Will you be all right … un
til sundown?”

  “This is the Yuirwood and I’m Cha’Tel’Quessir.”

  “Cha’Tel’Quessir with no knife in his belt or boots on his feet.”

  The youth’s attention dropped to the ground and stayed there with his mouth open and his fingers splayed in panic. Alassra thought he’d lost his shoes during their time-trek, then she remembered his bare feet in the Sulalk stable.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Bro didn’t notice the Simbul’s very rare apology. “The stream,” he muttered. “Oh gods, my boots are still beside the stream.”

  “Take mine,” Alassra said quickly. “Don’t worry, they’ll fit: I’ve got huge feet.” She undid the thongs and kicked free of the leather. “And a knife.” She opened her belt and removed the first of several sheaths.

  The sheath held a plain dagger with a brass-studded hilt and a single-edged blade. A peddlar had given it to her after she rescued his donkey from a muddy ravine. Short of the donkey, it was the man’s most valuable possession, so she’d kept it, as she kept many things, until she found better homes for them. It could neutralize most poisons on contact and deflect simple spells; but the Simbul could neutralize any poison and her ability to deflect magic was second to none.

  She gave it to Bro along with a single strand of her silver hair, which she tied around his wrist. “I know you’ll be here at sunset. I’ll bring you better clothes and a more useful knife. But if you need me here before then, squeeze the knot and say my name. I’ll hear you; I’ll be here before you take your next breath.” He looked doubtful, ready to break the strand and run for the trees immediately. “Think of your sister, Ebroin. You wouldn’t want me to tell her that I’d left you here, alone, and something bad had happened to you.”

  Bro swallowed hard. He slid the knife onto his belt and left the hair alone. “Take care of her.”

  “Peace between us, Ebroin?” Alassra offered her hand.

  He shook his head. “Just take good care of her. Don’t let her forget that her mother was Cha’Tel’Quessir.”

  “I won’t.”

  Alassra retrieved her staff and the child. She smiled at Bro, who turned away, and reached within herself. Finding the source of Mystra’s blessing—the silver fire of the Chosen—she let it take her and the child back to her privy chambers.

  7

  The city of Bezantur, in Thay

  Between midnight and dawn, the fifteenth day of Eleasias, The Year of the Banner (1368DR)

  Fine ash and cinders, black as the starless Bezantur sky visible through arrow slit windows, trickled through the elegant fingers of Mythrell’aa Vianul, Zulkir of Illusion, mistress of Serpent Tower. The sparkling powder fell into a crystal bowl, already knuckle-deep in darkness. When her fist was empty, Mythrell’aa scooped another handful from a smoldering brazier. She whispered two words—the name of her antagonist—Alassra Shentrantra, and began again.

  Mythrell’aa’s bowl filled with the residue of incense and empty visions. The sky lightened to a bruised lavender. Her time for private pleasures faded with the night.

  “Where are you?” Mythrell’aa’s black-enameled fingernails scraped the bottom of the brazier and brought up a handful of glowing embers. “Not beyond my reach.”

  A statement of faith, not fact. Every zulkir knew the Simbul had mastered spells they could only dream of. She could vanish for months and reappear in the thick of battle, radiating fire and lightning, ambushing them when they had thought they had the advantage.

  Mythrell’aa had a true advantage over her Thayan peers: an older name, a private quarrel, and a thorn stem, the last token of an ill-fated love, which Alassra Shentrantra had unexpectedly preserved in her most private chamber.

  “Come home, Alassra,” Mythrell’aa wished as she shook the embers like dice in her loosely clenched fist. Blood-red lips parted in an eager smile. Yesterday, two years of scrying and spying had been fulfilled when Alassra came face-to-face with Mythrell’aa’s minions in a no-account Aglarondan village. It was almost too much to believe that her illusionists had achieved the penultimate victory, but as the day passed and Alassra failed to appear in her private chamber …

  After decades of waiting, Mythrell’aa began to hope.

  The spilling embers formed a shape, like wine in a transparent glass. Mythrell’aa’s smile froze. Her breath escaped in an enraged gasp.

  “A child!”

  The dangling lump in Alassra’s arms was unmistakable to anyone who could read fire and ash. Mythrell’aa’s hand was empty. Alassra’s glowing shape was complete and began to move above the bowl.

  “A horse! You were looking for a gods-all-be-damned horse!” The zulkir made a fist. “What else went wrong?”

  She considered her imperiled illusionists by face and name. She’d taught each of them magic and more, but they were all expendable, when Alassra Shentrantra was the prey. Before they left Thay, Mythrell’aa had made certain they knew none of her secrets. They couldn’t betray her if they fell into the witch-queen’s hands.

  Intrigue was a dangerous game and a game she hadn’t played until recently. Mythrell’aa’s life had been simpler before the Salamander War, before Zulkir Aznar Thrul established himself as Tharchion Aznar Thrul here in Bezantur. Before all that, Mythrell’aa had maintained cozy relationships with Bezantur’s tharchions. She handled the magic and kept herself amused; they handled the intrigue.

  Thrul had changed all that. He had no need of her spellcasting talents and treated her like a child. No, worse than a child, he’d treated her like a slave, expecting her—who’d been a zulkir before he was born—to cater to his whims. So she’d turned to Szass Tam and he’d taught her … for a price.

  But not even Szass Tam knew about Alassra Shentrantra: he hadn’t asked; she hadn’t told. It was the first lesson he’d taught her, and she’d learned it well. Someday Mythrell’aa imagined she’d reveal what she knew about the witch-queen of Aglarond. Until then, Mythrell’aa kept her secret to herself. Countless Red Wizards moldered in lonely graves because they’d underestimated the witch-queen’s power. Illusion’s zulkir wouldn’t be among them.

  Mythrell’aa turned away from the animated embers, to the narrow windows where a man stood, as if in a trance, his face to the horizon. The past and the future were beyond Mythrell’aa’s control, but in the present, in this room, there was nothing about Alassra Shentrantra that couldn’t be used to hurt someone.

  “Lailomun. Lailomun, my pretty pet, come here.”

  Lailomun started when she called his name. He reached for the open window, encountered the wards and fell back, nursing his numbed hands.

  He hadn’t changed since Mythrell’aa surprised him that night, decades past, in the trysting room Alassra Shentrantra prepared for them. His handsome face remained unmarked by time, except for a small bluish scar above his right brow, where Mythrell’aa’s vengeance burrowed through his skull.

  She hadn’t changed him, not the way zulkirs usually changed the annoyances of their lives. Lailomun knew himself and recognized her: His thoughts, a mixture of hate and horror, were poetry written in wide eyes, flared nostrils and quivering lips. He said nothing. Lailomun hadn’t spoken since Mythrell’aa brought him back to Serpent Tower, but that was his decision, an act of futile willfulness that delighted the zulkir each time she roused him.

  “Come. I have something to show you.”

  Having failed with the window, Lailomun headed for the door. Mythrell’aa let him take a few strides, then dropped him to his knees with an effortless spell: They’d played this game countless times before.

  “How many times must I tell you, my pet? You’re mine. You’ll never leave me again.”

  Lailomun froze—his will, again, not hers. He studied his surroundings with the wit that made him so attractive to experienced and mighty women. This morning, because she’d been disturbed and another experienced, mighty woman was the source, Mythrell’aa gave her one-time lover an extra heartbeat’s contemplation before she tightened his
chain again.

  “Shall I drag you?”

  He rose and came to her, proud and dignified in defeat. The zulkir could have procured his cooperation, as she did with her body servants, but she’d left Lailomun’s nature intact and tampered with his memory instead. Whatever Lailomun had remembered when she extracted him from the trysting room he remembered still. After that moment, however, his memory held nothing. Each time Mythrell’aa called Lailomun, she awoke him from an open-eyed sleep that, from his crippled perspective, had begun in the trysting room. He’d remain alert for a little while, thinking his captivity had just begun, dreading what lay ahead. Then, gradually he’d fall into a trance until she roused him again.

  Mythrell’aa opened her arms above the ember images. “See who I’ve found.”

  Her voice was sweet and deadly. Lailomun knew better than to trust her, but he looked at the images and recognized his ladylove.

  “See, my pet, she has a child. Not yours, is it? Surely it’s too big, too old to be yours. You were together, what—two years? Less? That child must have a different father.”

  Lailomun was surprised. More than surprised, he was shocked. Where another man might have lost his voice, Mythrell’aa hoped, when his lips parted, that Lailomun might find his. He caught himself before he spoke a word.

  “Always the same decision,” Mythrell’aa said softly, a trace of affection in her voice. She reached up to caress Lailomun’s cheek. He held his breath as her sharpened nails moved across his flesh.

  “She never loved you, Lailomun, not as I loved you. I could show you more. I could show you Alassra Shentrantra in the arms of a score of men, I could reveal her naked in the lairs of beasts and demons. She’s made a fool of you, Lailomun, used you up and thrown you aside.”

  The zulkir, who was head and shoulders shorter than Lailomun, retreated, the better to observe his reaction. But there was no reaction. Shock had shattered the man’s fragile awareness. He’d become, again, a living statue. She could awaken him. He’d have no memory of these last moments. The game could be played and replayed until Lailomun’s nerves frayed and he collapsed into a stupor from which even a zulkir could not arouse him.