The Wizardwar

by Elaine Cunningham

  He searched his heart for the truth of this. There had been moments when he was intensely aware of Tzigone as female, and he had felt an occasional twinge of intrigued curiosity. But that was not the heart of their friendship.

  This triumph was short-lived, for a sudden heaviness settled upon him—the obsessive weight of the debts that first shaped and defined their relationship. He glanced down and noted Tzigone regarding him with an equally troubled expression. On impulse, he decided to turn this latest test into a joke.

  “You take your debts seriously,” Matteo reminded her. “If I get you out of here, the price will be an entire year without any infraction of Halruaan law.”

  She wriggled out of his arms. “Before you talk about price, you need to see something.”

  Matteo followed her through the mist, keeping close on her heels for fear of losing her.

  She stopped abruptly and turned to him. “Dhamari is gone. I think I know why.” She stepped aside, giving Matteo a full view of the mist-veiled horror.

  A Crinti woman sat propped against a steep-sided conical mound, her head lolling to one side. Her face was black with dried blood. Where her eyes had been were dark, empty holes.

  “She tore them out with her fingernails,” Tzigone said dully. “Whatever she saw here was more than she could face. Dhamari is gone, and she is here. It was a trade, Matteo. A trade. I won’t take my life at the cost of yours.”

  “That’s not how it will be,” Matteo said sternly. “We are here together, and together we’ll leave. We have to trust in that and in each other.”

  A silvery sword clattered to the ground between them, sending them both leaping back in surprise. Matteo recognized the sword as the weapon Tzigone had stolen from a swordsmith shop the day they’d met and later hidden behind his horse’s saddle. Possession of a stolen sword had earned him a night in the city prison.

  “Which one of us did that?” he wondered, pointed to the sword.

  “Does it matter? The small betrayals add up,” Tzigone said, her usually merry voice troubled. “How many times have I stolen your medallion?”

  “Four or five,” Matteo said dryly.

  She shook her head and held up a jordaini emblem, a silver disk enameled with yellow and green, slashed with cobalt blue. “Twenty years on the streets isn’t something easily forgotten, Matteo. Sooner or later, I’m going to cause more trouble for you than either of us can handle.”

  Matteo disagreed—he trusted Tzigone, and he searched his mind for something that might convince her she was worthy of this trust. Even as the thought took shape, a clatter of hooves and a bad-tempered whinny erupted from the mist.

  He watched, open-mouthed with astonishment, as a tall black stallion trotted toward them—a horse that some irreverent stable hand had named “Cyric” after an insane and evil god.

  “Lord and lady!” Tzigone exclaimed. “All that thing needs is glowing red eyes!”

  The horse whickered and blew as Matteo stroked his ebony muzzle. The horse was warm and solid to his touch, not like the illusions the dark fairies had shaped from his stolen thoughts. “You’re no nightmare, are you, Cyric my lad? I must admit, however, that when you snort like that I always expect to smell brimstone.”

  Tzigone eyes narrowed as she regarded the jordain and his favorite mount. “You’re actually fond of that beast.”

  “Indeed I am! Cyric has thrown me, nipped my shoulder, and once when we were traveling he kicked over my lean-to and deliberately passed water in my cooking kettle.”

  “What’s not to love?” she muttered.

  “Yet he would run himself to death if I needed speed, and there is no horse alive that I’d rather trust in battle. Cyric is capable of a deeper, more profound loyalty than any creature I know. Any, perhaps, save one.”

  He slapped the stallion’s rump and sent it running off into the mist. “You followed me into Akhlaur’s Swamp and fought the laraken, though you had no way of knowing it would not leave you an empty crystal shell. You are here in this place because your friends and your Halruaa were threatened, and you gave yourself in their place. You and Cyric are two of a kind, Tzigone.”

  “Well, a girl can’t hear that too often,” she said dryly.

  “There is nothing more powerful than friendship—and no friend I would rather have,” he said earnestly. “That power has a magic of its own.”

  Tzigone’s eyes brimmed. She dashed away tears with the back of one grubby hand and pointed. Matteo turned. The mist parted to reveal a moss-covered, conical hill. A shimmering oval beckoned them.

  Her face froze, her smile shattered. He followed the line of her gaze. A swift-darting swarm approached, a small army of dark fairies apparently bent upon holding their captives in this misty netherworld. There was no way the two friends could reach the portal in time.

  Matteo pressed one of his matched daggers into Tzigone’s hands and drew his sword. They hardly had time to fall into position, back to back, before the dark fairies fell upon them.

  Tiny knives flashed, too fast for the eyes to follow. Matteo felt the stings, shallow and taunting. His sword flashed out again and again, trying in vain to drive them back, and he moved his dagger in swift, complex defensive patterns.

  So quick were the fey monsters that they easily darted in and back, working around each of his strokes and lunges, stabbing at him again and again yet always keeping beyond reach of his blade. Pain flooded over Matteo, but pain more like intense sunburn than anything a knife might inflict.

  He glanced down. His white garments were flecked with blood from hundreds of pinpricks, and his forearms appeared to be covered with a fine rash.

  At this rate, it would take a very long time to die.

  He felt Tzigone step away from him, and quickly he moved back into position, determined to keep her back covered.

  “Let me go,” she insisted, circling around as if to evade his protection.

  Matteo easily moved with her, his sword and dagger flashing. “Forget it,” he informed her curtly.

  She hissed in exasperation and spun, nearly as fast as the fairies, delivering a sharp kick to the back of Matteo’s knee.

  He only faltered for a moment, but that was enough for Tzigone. She darted away. The Unseelie folk followed her like vengeful shadows.

  Before Matteo could regroup, a flash of power lit the misty realm. He threw up one hand to protect his eyes.

  When he could see again, he stared in astonishment at the charred bodies of several of the dark fairies. The rest had scattered—or maybe this was the sum total of their attackers.

  The dark fairies were smaller than he had expected and so strangely beautiful that he almost regretted their fate. A terrible keening song rose from beyond the mist as the Unseelie folk bewailed their dead.

  “They can die here,” he marveled.

  “So can we,” she retorted as she scanned the mist for the next attack. “You didn’t by any chance bring iron with you?”

  “Basel said it can’t be done,” he said in bleak tones. “Iron weapons won’t cross over the veil.”

  Tzigone’s eyes narrowed as she considered this. “Not if you follow the rules, it won’t Call Cyric again.”

  “I didn’t call him the first time.”

  “Sure you did. You’re better at it than I am—that was the most convincing illusion I’ve seen yet”

  “That’s impossible! I’m a jordain!”

  Even as he spoke, Matteo realized the truth of her words. He could see magic in this place, sense it in a way that powerful wizards and elven magi were said to do. The Weave, the magic Mystra spun and sustained, was as foreign to him as air was to a fish, but perhaps this place knew magic of another sort.

  “The Shadow Weave,” he said. “It does exist! And I can sense it, even use it!”

  He seized the girl’s shoulders and turned her to face him. “Shortly before I left the Jordaini College, we received word of a new sort of magic sifting into the Northlands, perhaps even into Ha
lruaa. It is said that the goddess Shar created another source of magic, one that has nothing to do with Mystra. Sages suspect that she experimented in isolated lands, perhaps in other planes of existence. This place of mist and shadows may be one such realm!”

  Tzigone looked skeptical. “Fairies have their own gods. Didn’t they have anything to say about this? They just stood by and let this Shar set up housekeeping?”

  “This is not the Unseelie Court,” he explained, “but a corridor between their world and ours. Nothing is real here. I suspect that the dark fairies have no power to hold us—perhaps they are protecting their own borders, as we do ours! Illusion is all-powerful here. It may be that people who stumble in are trapped simply because they believe they can’t leave.”

  She frowned as she tried to sort all this through. “So you’re telling me that you’re some sort of wizard, after all.”

  “No! Well, perhaps,” he amended. “The jordaini are vessels empty of Mystra’s Art. It is possible that this void makes us uniquely suited to the Shadow Weave.”

  Tzigone shrugged. “You’re usually right. What interests me most at the moment is the notion that we could leave any time. Now would be good for me.”

  A faint glow dawned in the nearby mists as another gate took shape. The faint keening of fairy song surged in alarm, and small black streaks hurtled toward them.

  Matteo put two fingers to his lips and blew a sharp, shrill whistle.

  The clatter of hooves announced Cyric’s return a moment before the black stallion leaped from the mist and charged the attacking fairies. The illusionary stallion proved fully as evil-tempered and loyal as the original. Cyric plunged into the advancing horde, screaming with equine rage. The horse reared up, lashing out with his hooves.

  “Iron horseshoes,” Matteo murmured with satisfaction as he drew dagger and sword. “You can cast spells here—magic of many sorts is present. Transmute these to iron.”

  Tzigone raced through the words of a spell. The weapons grew heavier, and their shining metal turned as dull as the mist

  “Well done,” he said as he handed her the iron dagger.

  “Cyric and me,” Tzigone said, holding up two entwined fingers.

  Several dark shapes outflanked the stallion and sped toward them. Tzigone dropped into a knife-fighter’s crouch and slashed out. For a moment a dark fairy female stood revealed, stunned into immobility by the unexpected presence of an iron weapon. Then Tzigone lofted the dagger and pressed the attack. Though slowed and weakened by the poisonous metal, the fairy still possessed the speed and agility of any swordmaster. The grimy little sorceress and the small, fey being circled and slashed, one determined to reach the portal and the other equally set upon barring the way.

  Matteo fell into guard position, scything a path with his iron sword. He and Tzigone backed slowly toward the glowing portal. Finally Tzigone threw the dagger at the nearest foe and gave Matteo an ungentle shove.

  They turned and ran the last steps to the magical portal. Together they leaped through, landing on ground that felt blissfully solid and hard.

  He picked himself up and looked for Tzigone. Basel had already swept her up into a crushing embrace.

  Andris came over to Matteo’s side. “It is said that those who enter the Unseelie court come out being what they truly are,” he said softly. “What did you see? What did you learn?”

  Matteo’s gaze swept the Nath, searching for some sign of the Shadow Weave. He did not see its magic as he had in the Unseelie corridor. Not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved, he shrugged. “I am simply a jordain, nothing more.”

  The girl came over to Matteo, beaming, but pulled up short when her gaze fell upon the nearly transparent Andris.

  “Nine hollow Hells! What’s he doing here?”

  “Andris is a jordain, pledged to the service of Halruaa. He is helping me tend several tasks of great importance.”

  “Isn’t that cozy?” Tzigone folded her arms. “Last I knew, you two were going at each other with swords and looking pretty damned serious about it. Last I heard, he was working with Kiva and the Crinti.”

  “We’ve come to an understanding,” Matteo said.

  The girl shook her head. “I don’t think you’ve got another Cyric here, Matteo.”

  Andris attempted an ironic smile. “Shall I take that as a compliment?”

  “You can take it to hell and back, for all I care,” Tzigone told him. “In the meanwhile, keep out of my way.”

  The ghostly jordain bowed and walked quietly away. Matteo started after him, then decided his friend would prefer solitude.

  “You’re wrong about Andris,” he told her softly. “He is a good man, with perhaps too strong a sense of his destiny.”

  “Maybe.” She tucked her arm through his and sent him a crooked smile. “You do have an annoying habit of being right”

  “I have an annoying habit of being blind,” Matteo said.

  Tzigone pulled away and propped her fists on her hips. “You want to repeat that for people who don’t speak jordaini?”

  “Andris was right—those who pass the veil see themselves as never before. I didn’t realize how large a part pride played in my life. Now I see it at every turn, and it is not an attractive sight”

  “You’re proud,” she agreed, “and that’s like saying Sinestra Belajoon, one of the most beautiful women in Halruaa, is vain. The way I see it, you’re both entitled.”

  “Pride directs the focus inward. I look to Halruaan lore for answers. You are much more flexible than I. Without your quick thinking, we might not have fought our way through the dark fairies.”

  Her eyes went wide. “Who showed me how to recover memories? That came in very handy. Who was it who told me I was a wizard and urged me to learn about my magic?”

  Matteo sighed. “You would have found your way to these things in time.”

  “I’ll bet you tell a corpse the same thing. ‘Don’t worry about this minor defeat, my good fellow—I’m sure you would have picked up that sword sooner or later.’ ” She gave a wickedly precise imitation of Matteo’s speech. “Would it salve your jordaini pride if I played the part of a swooning maiden?” she asked in her own voice.

  The image was so ludicrous that Matteo couldn’t help but smile. “It might”

  “Well, forget it Now that we’re back, what are you? Still a jordain?”

  He considered that. The sharp contrast between the shadowy plane and the world he knew had muted his perception. The ability to see magic had faded, yet there was something.…

  “I suppose that depends upon your definition,” he said.

  “Jordain,” she recited helpfully. “A prissy, arrogant know-it-all who can drone on about any subject at all until his listeners start bleeding from both ears. Someone who couldn’t bend a law in a gale. An old maid who only knows enough about fun to keep me from having any.”

  Matteo’s lips quirked. “That does sound familiar,” he agreed.

  Tzigone nodded and returned to his arms. “Then tell me this: Why am I so glad to be back?”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Sunrise colors painted the sky as Avariel flew swiftly toward Halarahh and the modest villa that Basel kept in the king’s city. The skyship swept over the city, slowing and settling as it approached the small tower.

  Tzigone, who had bathed and dressed in blissfully clean garments, stood at the rail, taking in the vivid scene as if the heat of the Halruaan sun and the brilliant colors of sea and city could burn away memories of a grim, gray place. Suddenly she leaned over the rail and pointed.

  “What in the Nine bloody Hells is that?”

  A faint pollen-yellow aura surrounded the wizard’s tower.

  “The building had been magically sealed,” Basel explained, his face suddenly somber. “With all that has happened, I did not have a chance to tell you of Farrah Noor’s death. Mason has been accused. Since there is some uncertainty in the testing, he is allowed to remain in the relative freedom of my
tower.”

  Tzigone’s brown eyes went enormous with shock. “That can’t be true! Mason would never hurt Farrah. They were lovers, you know. He was insanely giddy over her.”

  “If you are called to speak for him in court, I would suggest choosing different words to express their mutual affection,” Matteo advised.

  “Farrah’s dead,” she repeated, trying to take this in. “That doesn’t seem possible. How did it happen?”

  “From what I understand, she was killed with a knife, which was later found in Mason’s room.”

  “That’s thin,” Tzigone scoffed. “What do the magehounds say?”

  “Mason remembers nothing at all about her death, and they can’t retrieve memories he doesn’t have. He will be held in the tower until the more puzzling aspects of the situation can be resolved.”

  “Such as the militia, Lord Basel?” inquired Matteo, pointing to the guards at the gate.

  The wizard grimaced as he took in the detachment of uniformed soldiers encircling the tower grounds. “We haven’t men to spare on such foolishness.”

  They landed Avariel at the nearby skypond—one of the shallow, man-made lakes that provided convenient docking for the flying ships—and hastened on foot to Basel’s villa. To their astonishment, the militia captain signaled to his men, and the guards barred the gates with crossed halberds.

  “My apprentice shows considerable talent for wizardry, but at his current level of skill he hardly merits this level of security,” Basel said coldly. “It is neither law nor custom to isolate a man held in house arrest. You have no reason to hold me from my own tower on Mason’s behalf.”

  The captain bowed. “This does not concern your apprentice, Lord Basel. Begging your pardon, lord, but I have a writ for your arrest.”

  The wizard took the parchment and studied the runes. After a moment he rolled it up and handed it to the guard. “Very well. This is my apprentice, Tzigone. She is to be given free access to my tower, to come and go as she pleases.”

  “As you say.” The captain signaled again, and two guards flanked the wizard.