by Eve Forward
He flung his hands wide and upward in a gesture of ecstasy as the sun burst through the clouds and illuminated his silver robes and hair with dazzling light. The magic of his aura spun about him in a shining blur as the radiance cascaded around him and rainbows danced flickering on the walls and ceiling. Showers of light shot from the mage’s fingertips and flashed purest white. Fenwick watched in awe. The moment broke as the sun moved back behind the clouds, and Mizzamir turned to look at him with a benevolent smile, the radiance shifting back to its normal gentle warmth.
“Ah, I do get carried away at times. You said you had found an agent for us, Fenwick? Please, bring him in, I do wish to meet him and advise him of his mission.”
“Uh, yes, of course,” stammered Fenwick, then recovered.
“I’ll tell you a bit about him first. He wishes to be a minstrel, but has only started his career...”
“A minstrel, eh?” Mizzamir looked thoughtful. “Not a bard, I hope?”
“No, no ...” assured Fenwick. Bards had been a mixed problem. For one thing they shared too many talents with thieves. For another, quite a number had been allied with the Druids. After the Victory, most of the bards had vanished. The rest had been exterminated, just to be safe. Now, the place of the bards had been taken by the more normal sort of strolling minstrel and storyteller.
These good folk lacked the strange ancient ways of the bards and their mystical powers as well, but they were thus that much more comfortable to have around.
“No, he’s to be a minstrel, right enough. He was born good, but not so stridently as you or I, Arch-Mage ... thus I think, with a bit of your magic to conceal his true goodness, he will be able to join the renegades without arousing their suspicions. I will warn you, though, he is fairly naive in the ways of wickedness. His name’s Robin. I’ll fetch him now.”
He walked out of the room, reappearing a moment later, saying, “Arch-Mage Mizzamir, I bring you the aspiring minstrel, Robin of Avensdale.”
Hoofbeats rang on the flagstones outside. Mizzamir’s eyebrow arched. Was the prince playing a joke on him and sending someone in on horseback?
His concerns were allayed as Robin stepped into the room. The fellow was a centaur. A young male, with wide, innocent eyes and fair skin. He wore clothing, a mark of civilization: a loose-sleeved white shirt and deep blue vest on his human torso, cut and fringed in imitation of the Troisian fashion and clasped at his human waist with a leather belt. A centaur of the Commots, no less, noted the mage, pleased. The Commots were the only civilized group of the wild but good horse-folk and were of far higher intellect and distinction than their hairy, merry, carousing brethren, with a finer, lighter build.
This young one held a plumed white hat in his hands and looked awe-struck at being in the presence of one of the great wizards. He had long gray hair that matched a horse-body of dark dappled gray, with four white socks over pink hooves, and a gray waterfall of a tail. The centaur saw Mizzamir and instantly dropped his eyes and bowed low, both from the waist and down on one forefoot.
Mizzamir smiled.
“Rise, Robin, and do not fear. So, has Fenwick told you of what you are to do?”
The centaur hoisted himself erect. His horselike, grayfurred ears, set high on his head, flicked forward attentively.
“Only to a small extent, your greatness ...” His voice was an uncertain tenor, only newly changed with adolescence.
“Well enough, then. I will elaborate.
“The people you are going to travel with are evil, vicious, cruel, heartless, wicked in all ways. They may seem clever, but it is cunning. They have no friends and are friends to none. They are villains, the antithesis of heroes. They are weak, because they do not stand together. They fight as much with each other as they do with their enemies, for they are too self-centered to work together coherently, and will abandon each other in trouble. They are thus always fearful of being betrayed by their companions, insisting that others take all the risks that they themselves might survive danger. They twist all happenings to suit themselves. Their lives now, trying to survive in each other’s company, are ruled by disharmony and squabbling.”
“You have heard them? Seen them?” asked the centaur, eyes wide with awe. Mizzamir shook his head regretfully.
“The powers of two of the members have hindered my scrying which is why your job is so important. Some brief, unclear scrying has succeeded here and there. Only hours after they escaped from prison, the one we believe to be an assassin tried to strangle his companion. Then the Druid pushed him into a pool. Later, the same Druid hit the assassin a cruel blow with her staff. They met with a dark sorceress, how one has survived I know not, and she threatened their lives by blowing up a tree as an example. Her powers, added to those of the Druid, have decreased my ability to focus my scrying, so we have only had vague images of what they have done since. Later, the two men attacked this sorceress and clubbed her off her horse. They subdued her and moved on and, since then, have been keeping their defensive magics strong. Images have been so poor we have not bothered to scry for them. I will try now, just to be certain they are where „ we thought they were headed, if we can make them out from their surroundings.”
The mage walked to the center of the room, into the center of a circle of ivory-white tiles inset in the floor, and gestured with a hand. In a dazzling shower of light, a hole irised open in the center of the tiles, and a crystal scrying font slowly rose from the radiant depths. Beams of white light shot forth and splashed in rainbows along the walls.
Mizzamir moved to the font and motioned the centaur to approach. As Robin did so, one tentative hoof at a time, he watched the mage gesture over the font, his fingertips now and then brushing the multishaded gems set into its rim. Slowly, within the font’s light-filled waters, a swirl of color and form began to be visible. Curiosity overcoming fear, he moved forward to look.
Within the bowl was a distorted and blurred image.
Mizzamir tapped it irritably, sending ripples through the water. “Hmm ... well, it was worth trying. The last we saw of them they were headed for Guthright’s Pass; we will send you there, and you will intercept them.” He stepped away from the font and clapped his hands. Light flashed, and the font sank slowly into the floor as the mage paced toward the window, the uneasy centaur following.
“It will be dangerous. The wild forces of good that roam the land will know these wicked folk for what they are and will seek to defend themselves. If the villains die in this sort of encounter, it will be a shame ... but you must get yourself to safety, for those wild forces may not know you for one of us. And do not think your companions will help you if you get into trouble. If you are near death, you will be left to die. Evil despises weakness. And of course, if they find out that you are of the Light, they will kill you without fail.”
He gave the centaur a stern look. “Be careful. These people are darkness and death, all that is base and wicked and spiteful in existence. Do not become fooled by their casual ways, their seemingly normal existence... for they are just as deadly and evil as any bat-winged demonic fiend from the blackest hell, seeking only to wreak fear, chaos, death, destruction, war, and pain wherever they go.” The centaur looked nervous, but resolved.
“I will go, Arch-Mage Mizzamir. What shall I do, and how?”
The mage smiled. “I’ll ask Fenwick to have someone get your things ... Fenwick? Sir Fenwick?”
The two looked around the conjuring room. The young champion was gone.
“Hmm,” sniffed Mizzamir. “Well, we’ll get them in a minute. Now then, you will be posing as a wandering minstrel, wishing to learn the ways of the trade, and of course you seek to record the travels of this band of adventurers for a ballad, what with questing heroes being uncommon these days, and then...”
Robin leaned close, absorbing every word, eyes wide and ears pricked.
III
Sir Fenwick strode down the hall. The wizard was old, yes, and wise, true, and good, of course, b
ut he didn’t have much field experience in dealing with small bands of villains. He was a powerful figure who worked from afar, he didn’t actually get down into the hand-to-hand sort of combating evil, like Fenwick did. Fenwick knew in his bold, free, hero’s heart that he could not remain in safety while a troupe of evil people roamed free. He was a skilled hunter and woodsman and could tell what those villains’ situation was. Outnumbered, on the run, no one to trust, desperate, panicking, fearful, like wounded beasts. They were so strung-out they’d go berserk at the slightest provocation, like the one who’d attacked Mizzamir.
They were heading into wilderness now, but on the other side of that wilderness were peaceful towns, lying in sleepy contentment. If they happened into one of those... He shuddered at the imagined resulting destruction.
He had no choice.
Mizzamir’s advice or no, he was going to call out the Verdant Company and put an end to these rampaging villains once and for all. He stopped to collect his close companion, Towser, a wizard of intermediate powers and leader of the wizards of the Company. Towser easily folded the fabric of reality to let himself and Fenwick step through to a place many miles distant, on the continent of Trois: the home of Clairiune Castle and the Verdant Company.
Fenwick ran up the winding stairs to the top of the signal tower and took a key from around his neck to unlock one of the cabinets in the tiny guardroom. He took out and unfurled a flag, and climbed up the trapdoor to the signal platform with its high, empty flagpole.
With a creaking of pulley ropes, a square of rich green emblazoned with a pair of crossed swords in gold slowly unfurled against the blue morning sky. All over the city, the members who wore that device looked up, saw, and responded.
Kaylana, on watch, was alerted by the sound of approaching hooves. Well, she thought, finally. She rummaged in her pouches for bandages in case any of their mounts had been injured in that mad dash of dragoninduced terror. Abruptly her head snapped up. Wait a minute. There was the light sound of the stag’s hooves, but they’d only had three horses, and she heard the hoofbeats of four ... she glanced at the knight’s horse to be sure it was still there and then gripped her staff and moved to a defensive position, nudging those of the party she could reach with her foot.
A young tenor voice called uncertainly, “Ah, hello? Is there anyone here? I’ve found your horses ... Hello?”
The words echoed around the walls.
Kaylana peered from her hiding place. From the direction of the canyon exit came the sound, and a moment later so too came their horses, being led placidly by the reins in the hand of... Kaylana’s eyebrows raised in surprise. Well, she thought. A centaur. Haven’t seen one of those for awhile. Her stag followed warily behind them.
The centaur, a gray one, with a nervous air about him, walked further into the canyon. He looked about, at the remains of their campfire, at the knight’s horse standing quietly in a corner, and flicked his tail uncertainly.
Kaylana glanced behind her and saw that the others had wakened and had hidden behind the same outcropping.
She motioned to them to be still and watched carefully.
The centaur walked forward uneasily, letting the horses’ reins slip. As the animals moved over to greet the black warhorse, the centaur stepped down the way a bit, his hooves sinking into the sticky mud left from their encounter with the dragon. He clopped forward a pace, then pawed at the mud with a confused air. Kaylana gripped her staff and whispered a phrase of power. As before she had coaxed the stuff of the stones to take water from the air and fragment themselves into clay, so now she reversed the process, from erosion to fossilization.
Robin gave a shrill whinny of fear as the soft mud around his fetlocks gave an ominous crackling sound and then hardened into black rock. He tugged at his feet, managed to get one forehoof loose, but the rest were caught fast in the unearthly stone. He was trapped!
Trapped with the villains nearby, for how else could this have occurred ... He tugged at his hooves and gave a faint squeal of terror, his one free hoof pounding frantically on the stone.
“Stop that, or you shall soon injure yourself,” snapped a voice, and a woman in dun robes stepped up from where there had been only strange stone before. He tried to shy, found himself unable to move, and almost fell over. He grabbed for the bracelet Mizzamir had given him...
“Be calm, centaur ... we shall not hurt you if you mean us no harm.” The woman held her hands wide to show that she carried no weapons, only a wooden staff.
Robin recovered what courage he could and turned his head to face her. Her eyes were deep gray, he noted distractedly, the same shade of gray as oak leaves.
He felt his shivering canning, his equine instinct to flee dissipating. He recovered his resolve and steadied himself, trying to ignore the cold tightness around his hooves. He almost lost himself again, when from behind the same rock came a man all in plate mail and another one with blond hair and a small slim woman, dressed all in black, and a very small, older human with a leather cap. He glanced at the first woman again. By the verse, he thought, I really have found them. This must be the Druid who hits people. The expressions of the others approaching made him uneasy.
In fact they were just miffed, at being woken out of a very sound sleep. They inspected Kaylana’s captive with mild interest.
“Fine work,” enthused Valeriana at once, showing her sharp teeth in a cheery smile. “Very well done. He’ll make a lovely breakfast this evening. Centaur is really one of the finer meats, especially if you use a bit of red wine and...”
“Cease your mockery, Valeriana,” admonished Kaylana as Robin’s eyes rolled in fear and he struggled in his stony bonds. “Do not worry, centaur, we shall not eat you.”
“Red wine, and what else, did you say?” Arcie inquired of Valeriana, taking out a scrap of paper and a stub of inkwood. Sam looked aghast at the Barigan, who looked offended. “I were only jesting! Fates! A fellow gets pretty sick of oatmeal day after day!”
Kaylana faced the centaur. “Pay them no heed, centaur. Tell us, why have you come here?”
Robin swept off his plumed hat and held it over his chest. “Good lady, I am a wandering minstrel, seeking to improve myself in the trade. To do so I must learn and record events in song and story ... but I have been born too late, and all the deeds of heroes have been recorded already, and the more experienced minstrels get all the breaks. I happened to come across your horses, and they resembled those such as an adventuring party might use, with filled saddlebags as for a long journey ahead, and already weary from a long journey past. They led me to this canyon ... and it does indeed seem to me you are a party of adventurers. I wish to journey with you and record the events of your quest to delight my audiences when I move on to become a full minstrel. Please, allow me to come with you. I can run and I can fight and I can entertain you with music and song. See, I show you the proof of my profession.” The centaur reached awkwardly into a saddlebag on his withers and drew out a graceful seventeen-string harp made of pale golden wood. It had a dolphin carved on the neck, and the pillar was smooth from much use. He gave it a quick strum and looked at them.
The party exchanged glances. “Excuse us a moment, won’t you, while we discuss this?” said Sam pleasantly.
“Don’t go anywhere,” he added, as the party moved out of earshot.
“I won’t,” muttered Robin, looking down at his trapped hooves.
The group formed a vague huddle.
“He’s a wimp,” decided Arcie.
“Look who’s talking,” scoffed Valeriana.
“His words are true though, despite the fact I think he is leaving some things unsaid,” replied Kaylana. Valeriana nodded.
“And he’s not a victim of Mizzamir’s light-minding process, either. The aura characteristic is distinctive, and he lacks it,” she added.
“He’ll slow us down, if we come to someplace we can’t take horses,” reasoned Sam.
“The race is fairly adept,” comment
ed Kaylana. “He could probably make it through any terrain passable by mule or donkey.”
“He’ll eat too much,” muttered Arcie.
“No, didn’t you notice, sneakthief? He’s got saddlebags with oats,” retorted Sam.
“Aye, I noticed. But he’ll still eat too much.”
“We could eat him.”
“No, Valeriana.”
“Writing songs about us? I don’t know if I like that idea,” replied the sorceress.
“D’you think he knows who or what we be?” wondered Arcie.
Kaylana glanced over at the centaur, who was scraping the stone with his free hoof. “If he does not, he will probably figure it out sooner or later.”
“Then what?”
“We lose him,” shrugged Sam.
“He’s large. Awkward,” commented Arcie.
“We could use him as a shield, if the need arose, though,” Sam said.
“Or as bait, if the need arose,” replied Valeriana drily.
“It might be a fair thing to have music to break the monotony of travel,” mused Kaylana.
Sam looked up at the silent knight.
“What do you think, dark one?” he asked.
The knight glanced deliberately over at the centaur, debated for a long moment, then gave a thumbs-up.
“Yeah, thumbs-up here too,” agreed Sam. The rest concurred.
“We can always eat him later, if he fouls up,” commented Valeriana, as they moved back to where the centaur stood. Kaylana muttered and rapped the ground with her staff; the stone turned back into soft mud, freeing Robin’s hooves. She smiled slightly at the minstrel.
“Congratulations, centaur, we have decided to allow you to accompany us. What is your name?”
“Robin of Avensdale, lady,” said the centaur, his ears Sinking in relief as he got away from the treacherous mud and back onto the gravel. “And yours?”
“I am called Kaylana. There stand Sam, Arcie, Valeriana, and ...” Kaylana wavered as she indicated the knight, who shrugged slightly. Arcie grinned. He had thought of a name.