The Wizardwar

by Elaine Cunningham

  Kiva observed all this with a calm face and well-hidden revulsion. The tower and the forest beyond were filled with the clatter of undead servants. Kelemvor, the human’s Lord of the Dead, probably had livelier company than this!

  Suddenly an aura of flickering, blue-green faerie fire surrounded Akhlaur. A speculative smile touched the necromancer’s thin lips. He dug into his voluminous sleeve and produced a tiny, ebony box. The glowing aura grew brighter and more condensed as it focused upon the box, then began to shrink as if it were slipping inside the little cube.

  “A spell cast long ago is finally bearing fruit,” Akhlaur announced with great satisfaction. He began the rhythmic, atonal chant of a spell of summoning.

  “He is creating a lich,” Kiva murmured with a mixture of horror and relief. She had seen Akhlaur prepare this phylactery many years ago and feared he had prepared it for his own transformation!

  She held her breath as she waited to see what unfortunate wizard would come to the necromancer’s call. An ancient man, little more than skin-wrapped bone clad in too-large jordaini garments, began to take shape on the stone floor. With a start, Kiva recognized the ruins of the wizard who had freed her from this very tower some two centuries past—and who had done her bidding for nearly twenty years.

  At last the soft radiance faded into the cube, and the elderly wizard lay in seeming death.

  “Remember the last time Vishna entered this tower?” she warned. “He was a powerful wizard. He will be a formidable lich.”

  Akhlaur brushed aside her concerns. “When Vishna revives in his new form, he will be completely under my control,” he declared. He smiled horribly. “Together, we will pay a call on our old friend Zalathorm.”

  The king sat quietly in a lofty tower chamber, watching his long-beloved wife with despairing eyes. He had lost Beatrix before, and so great was his joy in their reunion that he failed to question too closely the circumstances of her return. That haunted him now, though he was not certain what he might do differently, if given the chance to return to that point in time.

  Beatrix sat with her hands folded in her white-satin lap, her vacant, painted eyes gazing at the window. Zalathorm wondered what she saw. Despite all his powers of divination, he had never been able to see beyond the veil that separated them. Magic he could not dispel clouded his queen’s mind. The crimson star, the Cabal of whispered legend, protected itself and its creators with veils of secrecy or even madness.

  It was the sort of “protection” Zalathorm would not wish upon his worst enemy. Not that he needed to—his worst enemy survived by the power of the same artifact that sustained Zalathorm’s own life, his reign.

  Perhaps because his thoughts lingered on the artifact, Zalathorm felt a surge of familiar power running through him like a sudden fever. Protective magic burned through his senses, as well as a desperate struggle for healing. There came the wrenching snap of a life bound to him, cut suddenly and brutally free.

  “Vishna,” he murmured, sensing his old friend’s death. “How is this possible?”

  Beatrix turned an incurious gaze upon him. The king stooped to kiss her pale cheek and hurried away. He quickly resumed his magical disguise and, as a brown-skinned youth, descended into the dungeon to consult the Cabal.

  For a long time he stood silent before the crimson star, studying the glowing facets for an explanation of what had befallen his friend. Finally he dropped to one knee and quieted his sorrowing thoughts.

  “The heart of Halruaa seeks counsel,” he murmured. “Tell me, is Vishna among you?”

  The only response was profound silence. He received no sense of his life-long friend from the crystal.

  “So Vishna is truly dead,” Zalathorm said quietly, wondering why he could not quite accept that truth. It seemed to him that something of the wizard lingered—perhaps nothing more than an echo of their collective magic, but something.

  He turned back to the crystal, for another question demanded answers. Ambassadors from Mulhorand had yielded up the name of the wizard whose spells had shielded the recent invasion from view. Unfortunately, it seemed that nothing remained of Ameer Tukephremo but his name. The wizard had died in the invasion, his body lost, and his home and possessions destroyed by fire. Nothing remained that would aid Halruaan wizards in divination.

  Zalathorm found that far too convenient for credulity.

  Nevertheless, he projected a mental image of the man’s face and a description of the cloaking spell that had shielded the invasion. If there was, as he expected, Halruaan magic mingled in that casting, the elven sages would detect it. After all, Halruaan magic descended from ancient Netheril, whose earliest mages were taught by elves. Despite the enhancements—some would say corruption and abominations—that Netherese wizards added to this magic, the roots of their tradition were decidedly elven.

  His suspicions were quickly confirmed. The elven sages recognized the touch of Halruaan magic but could not identify the caster.

  Zalathorm considered this puzzle as he made his way through the labyrinth to the exit and back to his palace. When divination would not serve, there were other ways to smoke out treachery.

  Logic was foremost among them. Who was in a position to act, and who stood to gain? His thoughts drifted to Procopio Septus, who seemed exceptionally well versed in the magic of the eastern lands.

  As the king neared his private rooms, he noted the small, white flag tucked into a bracket mounted near the door. Though a diviner of Zalathorm’s power could easily sense the presence of most living beings, the jordaini’s magic resistance made them difficult to perceive. It was custom and courtesy for a jordain to give notice of his presence.

  Matteo was back already from the Nath. Zalathorm quickened his pace.

  The young jordain rose when the king entered the room and sank into a deep bow. “My lord, I have much to report.”

  No preamble, none of the niceties of Halruaan protocol. Zalathorm nodded with approval. “Get on with it.”

  “The laraken has returned. My jordaini brothers and I battled it in the Nath. All would have died, but the monster was magically removed from battle. This suggests that Kiva may have returned from the Plane of Water, and possibly Akhlaur as well. The necromancer’s spellbook contains a spell of dehydration similar to that cast against the Mulhorandi invaders.”

  “The spell was Akhlaur’s,” the king agreed. “There is no doubt in my mind. His tower has been raised—I’ve sensed a disturbance in the magic that hid it from treasure seekers.”

  The jordain smiled faintly. “Lord Basel said this report would be unnecessary.”

  “Basel?”

  “Lord Basel met us in the Nath and put his skyship at my disposal.”

  “Good thinking. From now on you shall have your own ship. Have the steward see it to. What more?”

  “I’m going after Tzigone. Lord Basel has found a spell that should serve. Its casting requires a lock of hair from one of my ancestors. I spoke with my father.”

  “Ah.” Zalathorm looked at him keenly. “This saddened you.”

  “Deeply. I knew the man all my life. He was one of my jordaini masters. He taught me all I know of battle magic and watched over me from my earliest years. Yet I knew him as my father only on the day his life ended.”

  The king looked startled. “Vishna! Of course you’re Vishna’s son—now that I look for it, the resemblance is plain. I felt his death. Tell me why it coincided with your meeting.”

  Zalathorm listened as the jordain related Vishna’s story. “A lich transformation. So that is why I sensed his essence still lingering. It’s trapped somewhere, changing and gathering strength, awaiting a return to Vishna’s body. Gods above!” he shouted, slamming one fist against the wall, “how could Akhlaur do this to a man he once called friend?”

  “I fear he is not finished with Vishna,” Matteo said quietly. When the king sent him a quizzical glance, the jordain added, “Akhlaur is a necromancer.”

  “Necromancers can c
ommand the undead,” Zalathorm said in despairing tones. “As long as Akhlaur lives, Vishna will never be allowed to die.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Matteo stood at the base of the fairy mound into which Tzigone had disappeared. Basel Indoulur’s skyship hovered overhead, but the wizard and Andris had come down into the Nath with him. Basel stood ready to cast the spell, a magehound’s jeweled wand in his hand and an uncharacteristically grim expression on his round face.

  Matteo glanced from the wizard to the ghostly jordain and back. “I’m not sure which of you is paler,” he quipped.

  “I’m not the one casting the spell,” Andris responded. “Lord Basel has the responsibility of sending you in. My only task is welcoming you back.” He spoke stoutly, refusing to acknowledge the possibility that Matteo might not return. The two friends clasped wrists, then fell into a brief embrace.

  Matteo stepped back and nodded to Basel. The wizard began the chanting of the spell. It was a complex thing, a strange and jagged melody that sounded sinister even in Basel’s pleasant, untrained baritone.

  A high-pitched, eerie wind began to whistle through Matteo’s thoughts, swiftly growing into gale force. The powerful wind drove him back toward the conical hill. Yet the gathering storm was for him alone—the winds did not touch the other men. Andris lifted a translucent hand in farewell.

  Suddenly the Nath was gone, and Matteo was hurled into a chill, gray world. He hit and rolled, quickly coming up into a battle-ready crouch, his jordaini daggers drawn and ready.

  There was no need—he was alone. In fact, as he scanned the rock-strewn moor around him, Matteo saw no other sign of life. There were no birds crawling across the pewter-colored sky, no scurrying voles amid the dull grasses, not even the hum and chirp of insects.

  Yet strange images seemed to swirl through the air, and voices lurked beneath the silence. There was more to this place than Matteo’s eyes could perceive—he was certain of that. The magic here was so thick, so foreign to Halruaan magic, that even he could perceive its presence.

  He wondered, briefly, what he might see through the eyes of a dark fairy. This misty moor was some sort of magical antechamber, no more real than a dream.

  The ground beneath him was damp and thickly covered by moss, and as he walked the spongy surface seemed to absorb his energy. Certainly it slowed his steps. The mist thickened, until he could see no more than a few paces ahead. He called Tzigone’s name, but sound did not seem to carry much farther than sight could reach.

  Suddenly, as if from nowhere, a solid fist flashed into Matteo’s face. There was no time to evade, so he took the punch, turning his head with the blow rather than bracing against it. He seized a handful of coarse linen and pulled his assailant down with him. They were evenly matched in size, and for several moments Matteo struggled to pin the man. When he did, he gazed down into a furious face, one disconcertingly like his own.

  “Benn,” he said in astonishment, recognizing the young peasant.

  “Why did you bring me here?” the peasant demanded.

  Guilt surged as Matteo considered this question. Was it possible that he had truly dragged the young man into this grim place? Had his jordaini resistance to magic distorted Basel’s spellcasting?

  The man began to struggle. “Haven’t you and yours done enough?”

  “It was not my choice,” Matteo said earnestly. “I never meant you any harm.”

  “How many people have to pay for your jordaini honors?” inquired a soft, almost toneless female voice.

  Matteo released Benn and staggered to his feet, stunned by the sudden appearance of the small, listless woman he had met but once. He quickly inclined his head in the traditional bow of respect to a wizard—for this is what his mother had been, before his birth had reduced her to this state.

  “My lady, you took your own path,” Matteo said respectfully. “I regret where it has brought you, but the choice was never mine to make.”

  The woman’s eyes seemed to stare right through him. “It is cold here,” she muttered, as if she had heard nothing Matteo said.

  He moved closer. “Vishna never told me your name,” he said softly.

  A puzzled expression crossed her face, bringing another stab of guilt and pain to the young jordain’s heart. His birth mother had lost so much of herself that she could no longer remember her own name!

  Another possibility occurred to him. Perhaps his mother did not know her name because he did not know it. Tentatively he reached out to the small woman. His hand lowered to her shoulder and went through. She was no more substantial than the mist.

  Matteo whirled toward the peasant. Benn was gone. Indeed, he had never truly been there.

  The jordain took a long, unsteady breath and considered his situation. These disturbing encounters were illusions somehow plucked from his own mind. Apparently the Unseelie folk had no trouble bypassing his jordaini resistance!

  On a logical level, Matteo knew he bore no guilt for his mother’s decision or for the children lost to the young peasant and his wife. These were choices made by others. Vishna had often warned him not to take responsibility where there was none, telling him that it was a form of pride.

  Pride, Matteo suspected, could be his downfall here.

  He held out his hands, fisted them, and turned them this way and that. His own form seemed nearly as wraithlike as that of his unfortunate mother. A moment of panic gripped him. If he could not count on his strength and his warrior skills, all was lost!

  Pride again, he realized. As a jordain, he had dedicated his life to developing the strength of mind and body, but here, logic had little footing. And strength? Matteo lifted a hand to his jaw. It ached from the blow Benn’s image had dealt him. Here illusion ruled. The calm, pragmatic certainty of a jordain was as out of place here as the white robes of Mystra on a tavern doxie.

  Soft, mocking laughter sang softly through the mists, coming at him from all sides. Matteo snatched out his daggers and whirled this way and that, watching for the attack. No dark fairies came, and as he considered the sound, he realized that the voices sounded more mortal than fey, that they were all the same voice. The laughter was a young man’s, deep in pitch and derisive in tone.

  With a sudden jolt, Matteo recognized the sound of his own voice. His disembodied thoughts had taken wing and were mocking him.

  “Calm certainty,” he said, repeating in disgust the description of himself. This was as much an illusion as anything he had encountered! For nearly a year, since the day Kiva had entered his life and shattered his assumptions, he had been wracked with doubts about the jordaini order. He was no fit jordain, no matter what comforting lies he told himself.

  A sudden bright truth came to him—a moment of epiphany that turned a year of turmoil on its head. Perhaps certainty was not the reward of faith, but the opposite of it! Perhaps faith meant keeping on, despite doubts. He had done that, and he would continue to do so. His doubts did not invalidate his life’s task; paradoxically, they confirmed it.

  The laughter died away. Matteo permitted himself a smile at this small triumph, then marshaled his thoughts and focused on his lost friend. If the mind was so powerful in this place, perhaps he could conjure Tzigone by force of will.

  He almost tripped over her small, huddled form. With a glad cry, he sank to the ground and gathered her into his arms.

  The jordain was not prepared for the jolt of power that sizzled over him. Somehow, he managed to keep his hold on the girl. The strange magical surge enveloped them both, sending their hair crackling around their faces and scorching their garments. The tattered remnants of Tzigone’s apprentice robe blackened and steamed, but she herself seemed unhurt Matteo blessed the jordaini resistance that protected them both.

  Tzigone’s enormous brown eyes searched Matteo’s face, registering but not quite accepting his presence. She looked dazed, and her smile was a faint ghost of her old insouciant grin.

  “Mind if I smoke?” she said, batting away the curl
ing wisps that rose from her singed clothes.

  Perhaps it was surprise, perhaps the tension of their surroundings, but Tzigone’s remark struck Matteo as wonderfully absurd. He laughed aloud from the sheer delight of having his friend back.

  The wry half-smile dropped off Tzigone’s face. “I knew it,” she muttered, disconsolate. “You’re an illusion. The real Matteo has less sense of humor than a slug.”

  “Somehow, I can’t be offended,” he said, still grinning.

  “Tell me about it,” she grumbled. “Goddess knows, I’ve tried!”

  “It’s me,” he insisted as he framed her small face with both hands, “and I can prove it Do you remember when we were chased by the wemic?”

  A smirk tweaked her lips. “You thought wemics could climb trees, seeing that the bottom half of them is lion. Would you be frightfully disappointed, dearest illusion, to learn that griffin kittens can’t purr?”

  “Do you remember this?” he persisted. Before she could respond, he bent down and gently kissed her lips. Nothing of this nature had ever passed between them—surely she would have to know this was no memory-conjured illusion.

  Tzigone’s eyes widened, and a familiar, urchin grin spread across her face like a quirky sunrise. “It is you! It has to be! Who else could possibly believe a kiss like that would be worth remembering?”

  She hurled herself into his arms, clinging to him with a fervor that belied her teasing words.

  The Unseelie mists deepened around them, and the chill seemed to sink into Matteo’s bones. With sudden certainty, he realized that the magic had indeed slipped inside him, trying to find something to twist and control and torment.

  Suddenly he was intensely aware of the girl in his arms in a way he had never been before. The heat and the need were compelling, disturbing.