Footwizard

by Terry Mancour

  But one of the visitors surprised me: Lady Tandine. She rode up one the path alone one morning while Fondaras and I were smoking out on the meadow, after a long morning learning about the colony’s earliest days. Lady Tandine rode with purpose up the long causeway. She had a stern expression on her face as she tied up her mount. There was a significant encampment here, now, complete with outdoor kitchen, a small corral, and a hovel for storing hay.

  “Count Minalan, may I beg a word of you?” she asked, clearly disturbed by something.

  “Of course,” I nodded. “What brings you to the Cave of the Ancients, today?”

  “Viscount Tyndal,” she said, bluntly, her eyes flashing just a bit. She paused, and looked out over the valley, as if she was searching for him.

  “What has he done, now?” I asked, knowing that there was a story coming.

  “My lord, I come to you not in your capacity as overlord, but as Viscount Tyndal’s former master,” she began, after taking a deep breath. “It is said you have known him since he was young.”

  “Around thirteen,” I agreed. “He was a stableboy, when I met him,” I recalled, “and his rajira had just emerged. He was awfully confused.”

  “He seems to have retained that quality, my lord,” she said, her lips pursed. “Confused as to a great many things. But you would have true knowledge of him, I would suppose. I seek counsel on his character, not his gift for the arcane. Is he . . . faithful, my lord?”

  “As faithful as any knight,” I agreed. “He has never foresworn an oath, to my knowledge. He treats his subjects well. His fellow apprentices find him a fast friend . . . if not a little irritating, at times,” I conceded. “If you wish insight into his character, he is bold, intelligent, and honorable.”

  “May I ask why you inquire so, my lady?” Fondaras asked, politely.

  “I . . . I am perplexed, gentlemen,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation. “His Excellency has taken interest in me, or so he says. Yet he acts . . . he acts as if he enjoys tormenting me – teasing me! – until I want to reach for the hilt of my sword. He professes his adoration for me, but he seems to delight in making me feel foolish.”

  Fondaras and I exchanged a meaningful look. “What are your concerns, my lady?” I asked, curious.

  “Concerns? I . . . my . . . that is . . .it is . . .” she babbled.

  “It sounds as if your trouble lies not in Viscount Tyndal’s character, but your reaction to his interest. Have you been intimate?” I asked, casually.

  “We . . . we have had several discussions together, alone,” she admitted, with a blush.

  “Has he tried to steal a kiss? Against your will?” Fondaras asked, pointedly.

  “I . . . My lord has always been respectful and that is not the issue, he is . . . he is . . . my question,” she finally managed, trying to gain control of herself, “my main question to you, my lord, is whether he would be true to me? Or any maiden? When I speak to his comrades about such matters, it seems as if he has known many maidens.”

  “Tyndal has always enjoyed a lusty reputation, as many a soldier does,” I agreed, reluctantly.

  “How, lusty?” she asked, her expression changing.

  “To my knowledge, my lady, he has never given his heart to a maiden. Other parts, perhaps,” I conceded, “and he has done so with great enthusiasm. But while he has flattered many out of their virtue, he has never sought my advice on any of his affairs . . . until recently,” I added.

  “He did?” she asked, in disbelief.

  “Indeed,” I nodded. “Not once. He has had his share of attention, himself. He is considered a war hero, and he is one of the leading arcane knights in Alshar. There are many maids who would covet an alliance with the man, either formal or . . . less so. Some have, perhaps, even given him their hearts and were disappointed. But I have never known him to make false promises. Nor ask his master for advice with a girl. He’s never devoted as much attention to a maid as I have seen him to you. If you do not wish his attention, I am willing to—”

  “No!” she said, her eyes bulging. “No, my lord, I . . . I . . .”

  “It appears my lady has to find knowledge of your own heart before you need concern yourself with Viscount Tyndal’s honor,” Fondaras observed, sagely.

  “My own heart?” Tandine asked, as if she’d been slapped. “What does my heart have to do with the matter? When he came here, I was secure in my future . . . if limited. I had my patrimony, my duties, a well-ordered life. Now I find I am to be a refugee, landless, without purpose . . . my heart? Gentlemen, my heart is buried beneath a mountain of other concerns!”

  “I think you will find if you settle what your heart desires, that knowledge will place the rest of your cares into context,” Fondaras advised. “It is not whether Tyndal is an honorable man, which, by all accounts, he is. The matter that troubles you is that you find yourself returning that interest even as he gently torments you. I would suggest that you resist his advances because you do not want to admit to yourself that he – your liege and a senior noble – might lose his heart to you: a rustic noblewoman from a small domain whose entire life has been secure.”

  “And now you are not just his vassal, but will be beholden to him, once you leave this valley,” I added. “You will be in his debt beyond what you naturally owe to him in fealty, and it galls you, it appears. That is understandable,” I said, sympathetically. “You are a proud lady from an old and distinguished house. You are unused to owing anyone anything, much less so much as Tyndal offers you.”

  “Treat with your heart, first, my lady, and then overcome your pride – or embrace it,” Fondaras suggested. “If you find yourself inclined to return his affections, then much will fall into place. If you decide that your heart does not have room for the man, then tell him . . . he will not pursue you further, is my guess.”

  “Oh, definitely not,” I agreed. “Tyndal is bold, but he is your equal in pride, my lady. He will not chase a maid who has rejected his courting. He has many other opportunities to entertain his heart, back in Vanador.

  “But as your liege, I would favor such a union,” I continued, staring out over the valley below as I puffed on my pipe. “He is a young and vital lord with a growing domain. He is a warmage at the top of his craft, fighting for a cause he passionately believes in. I cannot think he would be happy with an arranged marriage, to just any Wilderlord’s daughter. You would be a boon to him, I think. You would challenge him in ways he has not even considered. And, aye, he would be faithful to his heart, should he find you truly interested in it. That is my guess.”

  “But how do you know?” she demanded. “My lords, he is . . . he is toying with me!” she said, her nostrils flaring.

  “How do I know? I’ve known the lad since he was thirteen. He might seem casual about the matter, but this is no summer romance, to him, I feel. As for his . . . toying, my lady, how have your other suitors behaved, when paying you court?”

  Her cheeks colored. “I . . . I have had few in Anferny approach me about such matters,” she said, jutting out her chin. “I lead the castle’s knights, after all. I have little time for balls and parties.”

  “So, Viscount Tyndal is the first lad who has been serious in his interest for you?” Fondaras asked, his eyes shining.

  “Well . . . yes,” she admitted. “Perhaps they are intimidated by my skill with lance and sword. Or discouraged by my rank and position.”

  “Does Viscount Tyndal seem intimidated by your skill at arms? Or your rank?” I asked.

  “Well, no,” she decided. “Indeed, he slights my skills in little ways, and while respectful of my rank, it is clear that he is not impressed by it overmuch. He speaks often of baronesses and duchesses, and he counts them as friends. A mere Wilderlord’s rank is not daunting to him.”

  “So you have finally met a man who is not afraid of you, not intimidated by either your rank or your beauty, and applauds, rather than condemns, your vocation in arms,” I reasoned. “I can see why
your pride and your heart both feel challenged.”

  “Consider carefully, my lady,” urged Fondaras. “Such matters are not to be entered into lightly. But neither should they be ignored. Take it from an old man, who has seen generations of such little dramas play out. Regret is a heavy burden and one which you may carry for the rest of your life,” he warned.

  “I . . . I shall take counsel with my heart and pray for Ishi’s guidance,” she decided. “Perhaps the ride home will suggest . . . will suggest some things.”

  “Among your considerations should factor the knowledge that Ishi, herself, has admired Viscount Tyndal,” I said, embellishing a bit. “She has predicted that he shall have an interesting love life.”

  “He has found her blessing in temple?” she asked, surprised, her eyes immediately growing narrow.

  “No, from the lips of the goddess of love and beauty, herself; you have my word as your liege. She manifested in Vorone, a few years ago. Her eye is on the lad, for good or ill. Praying to her might be a risky prospect. She has a . . . banal sense of humor.”

  “You’ve . . . met . . . a goddess?” she asked, her face pale and her eyes wide in disbelief.

  “Several – hazards of the position,” I shrugged. “But Ishi and I have had several encounters. The last was on the eve of my journey here.”

  “I . . . the goddess? No, I . . . this is very perplexing,” she complained, folding her arms.

  “Would it help your decision to recall he slew a dragon, once? One that was attacking Vorone. He’s very valiant,” I added, just to increase her discomfort. “And he’s a good friend to the Duke, himself.”

  “I . . . thank you for your counsel, my lords,” she said, with a bow. “I have many things to ponder on the ride home, it seems. Where is the Viscount?” she asked, her eyes flicking around.

  “Oh, he and Ithalia and some others decided to go swimming in the Hot Lake,” Fondaras said, gesturing at the steaming lake below. “A good day for it.”

  “Swimming with Ithalia . . .” she said, her eyes getting a far-away look.

  “Oh, they’re old friends,” I agreed. “Travid said he knew a secluded spot. Gareth and Nattia joined them.”

  “Very well. Thank you again, my lords,” she said, with a second bow before she turned toward her horse. She was almost running by the time she got to it. We watched in silence until she disappeared down the causeway.

  “I think she’s going to make up her mind,” I suggested.

  “I am certain of it,” agreed Fondaras.

  “They’ll make a good pairing,” I decided. “She has spirit, skill and beauty. He has . . . well, he’s Tyndal.”

  “They’re going to fight like cats,” Fondaras predicted.

  “Undoubtedly. So, how do you rate my skill as a wizard now?” I asked. “Have I achieved wisdom, yet?”

  “No,” he said, instantly. “But you might be getting there. You’re faking it better.”

  “High praise,” I nodded.

  Lady Tandine wasn’t the only one dueling with her heart. Ithalia sought me out after dinner that very night and asked for my counsel in a similar situation.

  She, too, was being pursued by a lad – Lady Tandine’s own brother, Lord Kanset. But he was not teasing her and flirting with her the way Tyndal was. He was writing her love poetry, and it was perplexing her.

  She had a lengthy conversation with her grandmother in her quarters before stomping out, a sheaf of parchment in her hand. Alya and I were sitting in the common room, watching a drama on the screen – ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ a tale of tragic romance. It was fascinating. It was one of the few entertainments that I understood without help from Forseti or Lilastien.

  “What’s wrong, Ithalia?” Alya called out to her, as she passed.

  “She . . . is . . . infuriating!” Ithalia declared, pausing in her stomping.

  “Lilastien?” I asked in surprise. “Well, yes, perhaps a little, but—”

  “What seems to be the problem?” Alya asked.

  Ithalia gave a very frustrated – and very human – sigh. “I asked her advice about Lord Kanset’s advances, and she proved entirely unhelpful!” she declared.

  “Has he tried to take liberties?” Alya asked, surprised.

  “He would never dare,” Ithalia assured us. “You’re human,” she recognized.

  “At last accounting, yes,” I agreed, dryly.

  “Perhaps you can help me. How do I respond to this . . . this . . . to this!” she said and slapped the parchments on the table before us.

  “What are these?” Alya asked, picking one up.

  “Love letters!” Ithalia said, savagely. “Lord Kanset keeps sending me these, one every few days, by messenger! And flowers! He keeps sending me flowers!”

  Alay started reading. “And this discomfits you?” I asked, mildly amused.

  “I . . . I do not know how to respond,” she insisted. “The Alka Alon do not indulge in such devices. But it is clear that he considers these . . . these verses as some sort of courting.”

  “So respond sincerely,” I reasoned.

  “This . . . this is good,” Alya said, reading the elegant script. I glanced over her shoulder and read a few lines. It was good, I decided, after reading a few stanzas. Technically good. I was a fan of good poetry, from the Alka Alon epics to Jannik’s ditties, and Kanset’s command of the art was impressive for a man of his sparse years.

  “Yes,” I agreed in a murmur. “And sensual. There is no mistaking his feelings or his intentions. Clearly, he admires you and wishes to become more intimate. The part about the throbbing flower was particularly suggestive,” I pointed out. “The lad is letting you know he likes you.”

  “His interest is abundantly clear,” she said, in a low voice. “I am used to humani men being attracted to this form.”

  “A drunken stare in a Vanadori tavern isn’t quite the same as love poetry,” I pointed out. “The young man has passion. Enough to share, apparently.”

  “That’s what Grandmother said!” snorted the Tera Alon maiden. “She all but encouraged me to indulge him, somehow. She knows how scandalous such a thing would be—”

  “Fallawen and Ameras have both chosen human mates,” I observed. “And there are many such liaisons in the magelands.”

  “It doesn’t sound like Lord Kanset is proposing marriage, here,” Alya said, moving on to the next poem. “Indeed, his intentions are far less formal. Almost primal – no, no, definitely primal,” she said, as she read the verse. “Yes, he’s not talking of marriage, here.”

  “He should know that such a relationship would be doomed,” Ithalia said, flatly. “It is unfair to indulge in such infatuations with mortals. Their ephemeral nature makes getting attached ill-advised,” she said, defensively.

  “I’m certain that is the opinion of many on the Council,” I agreed. “And many of the more conservative elements in Alka Alon society who frown on fraternization.”

  “Conversely,” Alya said, looking up from the page, “you cannot put a price on passion, even if it is short lived. The man’s desire for you is clear,” she said, stacking the parchments neatly. “Committing them to verse is proof of it. Not every love-struck mortal would try to beguile you with words this sweet.”

  “Damn few of us could even make the attempt,” I agreed.

  “Ithalia, it is up to you how you wish to respond to this . . . but unless he smells particularly bad or treats you poorly, this young man certainly has an interest in you that won’t be denied.”

  “And what would you do, my lady?” Ithalia challenged.

  “Me? I’d swoon. I’ve been courted by country lugs whose idea of flirtation is a dead chicken and a jug of cider. This?” she said, tapping the parchment. “This is the sort of thing that humani maidens dream of. His intentions are clear, his feelings are authentic – you cannot falsify some things. He is smitten with you. You are uncomfortable with that. Either tell him you have no interest in him, or tell him you do. Things will proc
eed from there.”

  “We are due to leave, soon!” she protested. “It would be a . . . a . . .”

  “An intensely passionate affair in an exotic land during a glorious summer?” I offered.

  “I was going to say an opportunity for delicious dalliance, but then I’m an old married lady,” Alya suggested.

  “It’s an invitation to disappointment and disaster!” Ithalia insisted.

  “For whom?” I asked. “Are you so concerned with this young man’s disappointment that you wish to spare him? Or are you more concerned with how his – clearly sincere – attraction makes you uncomfortable?”

  “I . . . I . . .” she stammered.

  “Write him back,” Alya suggested. “Tell him either to meet you somewhere quiet and discrete, or that you have no interest in his affections. Pick one and enjoy the result. Whichever you decide,” she shrugged.

  “I have little skill in verse,” she confessed.

  “Just write him back. Your skill doesn’t matter. And, if your serious, deliver the letter personally, on hawkback. That would be impressive,” I said.

  “You’re just as bad as she is!” she snorted. But she took the poems before she left.

  “Young people are stupid,” Alya decided.

  “Ithalia is more than three centuries old,” I pointed out.

  “I know. But she’s still young. As is he. If they only knew . . .”

  “I know,” I agreed. “Young and passionate. And entirely smitten. Just like Tyndal and Tandine. Just like Gareth and Nattia.”

  “We really need to get away from this place,” she said, suddenly, looking around at the spare walls of the underground bunker. “It’s just too crowded, right now. Someplace exotic and . . . remote. And private.”

  “I know just the place,” I nodded. “We’ll leave in the morning.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The Song of Avius

  Who has heard the song of a dragon? I have. The very first. On the shores of a glittering lake.