The wizard paused for a moment, then nodded grimly. “Kiva summoned an imp and could not dismiss it. The creature did considerable damage before Keturah arrived and contained it. She banished Kiva from this tower.”
“So there was a grudge between them?”
“Not on Keturah’s part. She banished Kiva because it was the right and responsible thing to do. I stand before you as proof that Keturah’s heart, though large, held no room for grudges. You see,” he said with obvious reluctance, “I helped Kiva cast that spell. Keturah not only forgave me but consented to wed.”
The wizard’s expression darkened. “Still, it is hard to believe that Kiva took joy in killing Keturah years later, just to avenge that one slight Who could be capable of such evil?”
Because Dhamari’s question was rhetorical, Matteo did not respond. He exchanged the final formalities and went his ways. As he left the green tower behind, Matteo sifted through all he had heard. Grain and chaff, indeed! Keturah was a fallen wizard, a murderer, and an adulteress. How could he tell Tzigone these things?
How could he not? Keeping important truths from a friend was no better than open falsehood.
Yet wasn’t that precisely what Tzigone was doing? Surely she knew about Basel Indoulur’s background—she was as cautious and canny as anyone Matteo had ever met. Perhaps she was doing exactly what she had asked of him, and taking the man’s measure. He was not sure whether to be angry with her or grateful. He was not sure how to feel about any of this.
Matteo took the medallion from his pocket and studied it. The design was simple, the craftsmanship unremarkable. Yet Keturah had been a wizard, one successful enough to attract apprentices and claim a fine, green-marble tower as her home. She was not likely to wear so paltry a trinket unless it was powerfully enchanted. If this were so, he might be endangering Tzigone by putting it in her hands. He did not know Dhamari well enough to trust him.
Prudence demanded that he have the piece examined by a wizard, but whom could he trust? Not the queen, certainly. Since the medallion had no gears and whistles, she would have no interest in it. Not Procopio Septus. Not any of the wizards from the Jordaini College.
An impulse came to him, one that he refused to examine too closely for fear that it might not hold up to jordaini logic.
Matteo turned on his heel and strode quickly to the closest boulevard. He let several magical conveyances pass by, waiting for the rumble of a mundane coach and four. Matteo told the driver to take him to Basel Indoulur’s tower.
The wizard’s home in Halarahh was a modest, comfortable villa on a quiet side street, hardly the usual abode of an ambitious wizard-lord. Matteo reminded himself that Lord Basel was mayor of another city, where he no doubt indulged in the usual displays of pride and wealth. He asked the driver to wait, then gave his name and that of his patron to the gatekeeper, requesting a private audience with the lord wizard.
A servant led Matteo into the garden and to a small building covered with flowering vines. Once Matteo was inside, large windows, not visible from the outside, let the sun pour in. Lord Basel, it seemed, was well prepared for clandestine meetings.
As Basel entered, Matteo’s first thought was that Dhamari must have been mistaken about this wizard’s past. Jordaini masters usually mirrored the simplicity and discipline that marked their students’ lives. Basel’s clothes were purple and crimson silk, colors echoed in the beads that decked dozens of tiny braids. His face was round and his belly far from flat. Matteo could not envision this man among the warriors and scholars who shaped jordaini life.
He searched for some physical resemblance between them and found none. Basel’s hair was black as soot, his nose straight and small, his skin a light olive tone. Like most jordaini, Matteo was as fit and strong as a warrior, and at six feet he was tall for a Halruaan. His hair was a deep chestnut with red highlights that flashed in the sunlight like sudden temper. His features were stronger than the wizard’s, with a firmer chin and a decided arch to his nose. If this man was indeed his sire, the evidence could not be read in their faces.
“How may I serve the queen’s counselor?” Basel asked, breaking a silence that had grown too long.
Matteo produced the medallion. “A jordain is forbidden to carry magical items. Can you tell me if this holds any enchantment and if so, what manner?”
The wizard took the charm and turned it over in his pudgy hands. His jeweled rings flashed with each movement “A simple piece.”
“But does it hold magic?”
Basel handed it back. “A diviner could give you a more subtle reading. You served Lord Procopio. Why not go to him?”
Matteo picked his words carefully. “Recently I attempted to speak with Lord Procopio concerning Zephyr, a jordain in league with the magehound Kiva. I am attempting to learn more about Kiva and thought this a reasonable path of inquiry.”
“Ah.” Basel lifted a hand to his lips, but not before Matteo noted the quick, sardonic smile. “Knowing Lord Procopio, I assume he had scant interest in pursuing this topic.”
“None that I could perceive.”
“He will be keenly attuned to anything that hints of further inquiry. If you came to him with a talisman, he would immediately assume it was part of your search.”
In an odd way, perhaps it was. A protective talisman would explain why Keturah had managed to escape capture for so long. “Can it be magically traced?”
Basel gave him a quick, lopsided smile. “If so, it would be very poor protection.”
“Indeed.” Matteo rose, intending to thank the wizard and go.
His host halted him with an upraised hand. “Your eyes say that you’re unsure whether to trust me or not. That shows caution. You didn’t go to Procopio. That shows wisdom. If my old friend is angry with you—and I don’t need a diviner’s gift to know how likely that is—he might report you for carrying a magical item or demand that you turn it over to him at once. It would be within his rights and power to do so.”
“As it is in yours.”
“True enough,” Basel admitted. “You have little reason to trust me. Yet here you are. If you believe nothing else I’ve said, believe this: If there were any danger in that medallion, if there was any possibility that it would bring harm to Tzigone in any way, it would never leave this room.”
Matteo could not keep the surprise from his face. The wizard nodded confirmation. “Yes, I know that Tzigone is Keturah’s daughter. I knew Keturah, and I recognize her talisman. It served her well for far longer than I thought possible.”
The jordain’s mind raced. “Will others recognize it? Could it establish a connection between Tzigone and Keturah?”
“Unlikely. Keturah acquired the talisman just before she flew Halarahh. We were childhood friends. She came to me in need a few times after her escape.”
The enormity of this revelation stunned Matteo. If all that Dhamari Exchelsor said of Keturah was true, then Basel had defied Halruaa’s laws and risked death to help her.
“Does Tzigone know any of this?”
“No,” Basel said emphatically. “Since she is so determined to find out about her mother, I decided to guide her steps. She would have found her way to Dhamari Exchelsor in time. When I suggested that she send a trusted friend, I rather thought she would ask you.”
“Did you expect me to come here?” As he spoke, Matteo half wished that this would prove true.
The wizard considered, then shook his head. “No, but I am glad you did. Having met Tzigone’s friend, I feel easier for her.”
Matteo could not miss the sincere affection in the wizard’s eyes. “You care for her.”
“Like a daughter,” Basel agreed. “To ease your mind in turn, I tell you in confidence that I’ll do whatever is necessary to protect her from the stigma of her birth. If she is discovered, I will claim paternity.”
For the second time that day, the world shifted under Matteo’s feet. For Basel to claim paternity would mean admitting that he’d seen Keturah af
ter her escape. This was against the law, as was siring a child of two wizard lines outside the boundaries of Halruaa’s carefully controlled lineage. Either offense meant certain disgrace. Yet Basel Indoulur was prepared to do this for Tzigone’s sake. For a moment, Matteo actually wished that this good man truly was his father.
But would a good man stand by while his wife destroyed her mind and magic to ensure that she bore a jordaini babe? Matteo’s training taught him that service to Halruaa came first. Perhaps Basel had once believed this and learned that other vows lay deepest in his heart.
Another thought hit him, an aftershock no less jarring than the quake that proceeded. What if Basel’s claim was actual truth? What if the wizard was Tzigone’s father? If that were so, perhaps Matteo’s friend was also his sister! As Matteo considered this complex marvel, he found that he did not want to reject these possibilities out of hand. If he were able to do so, he would claim this unlikely family with pride. He searched the wizard’s face for a similar epiphany and found none.
“I’ve seen lightning-struck men who looked less stunned than you,” Basel said with a faint smile. “Yet we are not so different. I suspect that one of your reasons for seeking Kiva so diligently is that she obviously knows of Tzigone’s heritage. You don’t want her hurting Tzigone any more than she has.”
Matteo blinked. “I had not thought of it in those terms.”
“Sometimes the hardest truth to see is the one within.” The wizard spoke the jordaini proverb with the air of long familiarity.
They spoke for a few minutes more, and Matteo took his leave. On impulse, he gave the driver the name of a place he had visited but once. The horses trotted swiftly to the west, through rows of fashionable houses magically grown from coral, on through neighborhoods of dwindling wealth and prestige. Finally they stopped at a tall, stonewalled garden.
He passed through the gate and walked swiftly to the cottage he and Tzigone had visited. The door was ajar. He tapped lightly and eased it open.
A woman stood by the window, gazing out at the small garden beyond, her arms wrapped tightly around her meager form.
“Mystra’s blessing upon you, mother.” It was merely the polite address for women of her age, but the word felt unexpectedly sweet on his lips.
The woman turned listlessly toward him. Matteo fell back a step, his breath catching in an astonished gasp.
She was not the same person.
“What did you expect?” demanded a soft, furious voice behind him.
Matteo turned to face a woman dressed in a servant’s smock. Her face was round and soft, and it would have been pretty but for the grim set of her mouth.
She nodded at his jordaini medallion. “If one of you comes around asking questions, any woman he meets is moved to another place. Don’t you think these women have suffered enough, without losing their homes? Now this woman, too, will be moved. Moved again, if need be, until you and yours finally leave her be.”
Guilt and grief struck him like a tidal surge. “I did not know.”
“Well, now you do. Get out before you do more damage. There are some things, jordain, that are more important than your right to all the knowledge of Halruaa!”
She spat out his title as if it were a curse. Matteo was not entirely certain she was wrong. He made a deep bow of apology and pressed his coin bag into the servant’s hands.
“To ease her journey,” he said, then turned and fled.
He walked back to the palace, though it took the rest of the day and brought him to the gates when the last echo of the palace curfew horn rang over the city. It had been a deeply disturbing day, one that had brought more questions than answers. One path, however, was clear. He would tell Tzigone all, though the tale would be difficult to hear. The accusations against Keturah were both dire and plausible, but he understood now what drove Tzigone toward these answers for so many years. As painful as it might be to hear of her mother’s fate, Matteo now understood there was something far worse:
Not knowing.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Andris sat alone beyond the light of the campfires, watching in disbelief as Kiva gleefully received the treasure the Crinti bandits had gathered for her. She lifted a moonstone globe in both hands, cooing over it like a fond young mother admiring her babe.
Sternly Andris reminded himself of the importance of their quest. The Cabal was a rot at the very heart of Halruaa. He had to destroy it, not only because of his elf heritage but because he was still a jordain, sworn to serve Halruaa. Kiva was his only ally, his only chance to right this wrong.
All this he told himself. The phrases were as well practiced as a priest’s sunrise chants. Unlike the Azuthan prayers, though, his silent words seemed hollow and false.
He watched the Crinti shower the elf woman with pilfered wealth and grisly trophies. They were particularly proud of a huge skull that looked a bit like a giant sahuagin. Their demeanor was oddly like that of children who courted a parent’s approval but did not expect to get it.
Andris understood all too well that elves shunned and disdained those of mixed blood. Kiva exploited this fact. The simple gift of her presence made her a queen among the Crinti, and her feigned acceptance they embraced as a longed-for sisterhood. They were deceived by Kiva because they wanted to believe.
How well, he wondered, did that also describe him?
Kiva, enthroned on a fur-draped rock near the campfire, was vaguely aware of Andris’s unease, but she was too absorbed in her new treasure to spare much concern. The scrying globe particularly pleased her. She stroked the moonstone, attuning it to her personal power.
Shanair watched with a proud smile. “It is enough?”
“It’s a wonderful treasure,” Kiva assured her. “I will require some time to explore it.”
The Crinti gestured toward the massive skull. “This was fine sport. Will more of these come through the floodgate?”
Andris sat up abruptly, startled by the implication of Shanair’s words. His gaze shot toward the trophy. Firelight danced along the ridges and hollows, making the fanged jaws gleam like a demon’s snarl. It was not a sahuagin nor any creature known to his world!
“The gate will open in time,” Kiva assured her. “This monster is just a taste of what will come.”
Andris leaped to his feet and strode forward. Five Crinti blades halted his progress. Five gray-faced warriors regarded him with searing blue eyes, like small flames amid the ash.
“Kiva has not called for you,” one of them said, eyeing Andris as if he were something she had just scraped off her boot “Know your place, and return to it.”
“Let him speak,” Kiva decreed.
Andris brushed his way past the warriors and crouched at Kiva’s side. Leaning in close so that the watchful Crinti could not hear his words, he said urgently, “You cannot mean to open the gate. The Cabal must be destroyed, but not all Halruaa with it!”
The elf’s golden eyes narrowed and burned. “Need I remind you of the elf city in the Kilmaruu Swamp, drowned by the wizard Akhlaur and two of his cohorts? If Halarahh sank beneath sea and swampland, would you call that an injustice?”
“Is that your intent?”
Kiva was silent for a moment. “No,” she said softly. “Justice demands that the wizards pay for what they have done. It does not demand that I destroy more of my ancestors’ lands.”
“Your friends seem to think otherwise.”
She rose to her feet. “My friends honor their elf ancestors and destroy those who do not.” Her voice rang out clear and strong, and her gaze included not just Andris but the battle-ready Crinti warriors.
Shanair caught the implication, and she looked at Andris with a bit more respect “The male is elfblooded?”
“Would I deal with him if he were not?” Kiva retorted.
The bandit turned to her band and issued a sharp, guttural order. They put away their blades with obvious reluctance and returned to the campfire.
It occurred to Andris
that Kiva was telling the Crinti what they expected to hear—as she had the forest elves and the jordaini who had fought for her in the swamps of Kilmaruu and Akhlaur. As, no doubt, she was doing with him. Andris was surprised at how painful this realization was. He thought himself well beyond the sting of betrayal and half-truths.
With difficulty he brought his attention back to the discussion of the floodgate. “When the time is right, we will unleash creatures that might even challenge Shanair,” Kiva went on.
The Crinti’s laugh rang with scorn at this notion, and anticipation lit her strange blue eyes. “May that day come soon, elf-sister! Tell us how to prepare.”
“To begin with, you might want to improve your swimming skills.”
The females shared a dark chuckle, and neither of them noticed that the ghostly human in their midst did not share their amusement.
Andris woke the next morning to the splashing of water and the thud and clash of weapons. He belted on his sword and followed the sound to a stream not far from the Crinti encampment
Several of the elfbloods were training in water past their waists. He had perceived Kiva’s comment about swimming as a jest, but apparently the Crinti were more literal of mind.
For a long time Andris stood on the banks watching the Crinti warriors. They were good—among the finest fighters he had ever seen—but weighted down by their leather armor and heavy weapons. The water stole their strength and halved their speed. In light of last night’s revelation, that presented a serious problem.
The creature whose skull Shanair took would not be hampered by water or weapons. Andris had seen such a creature etched in a lore book detailing creatures from the Plane of Water. He had seen the laraken slip through the crack in the floodgate. He suspected that the slaughtered monster had been a response in kind. Last night, for the first time, Andris had begun to believe that Akhlaur was still alive. He doubted that the wizard’s minions were limited to a single monster.
Perhaps the Crinti’s precautions were not so far-fetched, after all.
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