The Last Wizard of Eneri Clare

by April Leonie Lindevald

  Plates empty now and confessions complete, they realized their extreme weariness. He walked her to her chambers in the palace, and just before bidding her goodnight, Tvrdik reached into thin air and presented her with a little bouquet of spring flowers. She gasped in delight, and hugged him again, “Thank you, my dear wizard,” she whispered, and slipped inside. Somehow, the wizard found his way back to his own room, his head reeling with images of all that had transpired that day. Bone tired, and only half aware of what he was doing, he washed and changed and fell into the soft bed, replaying those images in confused bits and pieces in his dreams.

  Lord Drogue stood quite still, hands clasped behind his back, gazing up at a large portrait of a man with a fierce expression. The figure on the painting was slight, with long, black hair, a beard, and pronounced eyebrows knitted over intense eyes that stared out at the viewer. He was dressed in clothing long out of fashion, holding a very large antique sword in his left hand, the point facing straight up, but poised for action. Behind him, the artist had filled in a lush outdoor scene, but the sky was stormy, and the tops of trees bent low in a wind one could only deduce from its ravages. Drogue was alone in the hall where his ancestry was recorded in portraiture. Massive gilt-edged frames lined the walls on every side, but it was this image that had all of his attention. The mountain prince spoke aloud, though his only audience was a crowd of painted ghosts from the past.

  “How many times have I heard the story, great, great-grandfather? How much a sacred part of our lore it has become: a tale of two noble youths, equal in gifts, and bonded heart to heart. How they played and grew together, studied and sparred together, achieved great things and garnered accolades, side by side. And when the alien hordes came to take Eneri Clare, they united the provinces and beat back the assault together. Each of them performed admirably in battle, each did his part to send the invaders packing. Both were wounded in brave struggle. And yet, when the dust settled, and peace returned to a unified land, only one of them was named king. The other was relegated to a remote, undeveloped land, where the labors of wresting fields, estates, and precious metals from the reluctant earth sapped his strength, and ended his life before it had run a fair course. Why was that, great, great-grandfather? Why did the golden house of Darian assume the crown, while the house of Drogue was made to wring every drop of its wealth from the hard earth? Hmmm? Did they quarrel, those boys? Was it over a woman? Power? Some ephemeral ideology perhaps, on which they could not agree? You do not yield your secrets to me, my esteemed forebear, but I smell the rotten aroma of betrayal. Darian wanted to rule. Kings do not share, and just like that, enduring friendship becomes irrelevant.”

  “Well, you may rest easy in your grave now, great, great grandfather. Our time is coming. The house of Drogue will take its turn at the helm, and I will be the one who sets it there at long last. One hundred years is quite long enough for the line of a false friend to reign. I am about to avenge the indignity you suffered, and take the crown in your revered name. Everything is in place. I have planted the seeds over time, and it will not be long before the fruits of my labors are ripe for harvest. I gave them the opportunity to cede the kingdom peacefully to my superior skills, but they refuse to see the truth. No matter. I will take what has always been ours, more roughly now, and it will not be as pleasant for them. They have made their choice. Ah, grandsire, how satisfying it will be for you to see your descendant take possession of what you were denied so many seasons ago. Perhaps, from wherever you sit now, you will bless the labors of this devoted servant who is the arm and engineer of your triumphant restoration.”

  Drogue bowed low with a slight flourish, then straightened and turned away from the portrait, making his way to the door with silent, swift footsteps. He had almost left the room, when he halted, stood still for a moment, as if contemplating his options, then retraced his steps until he found himself before the very last portrait in the room. He lingered, head bowed, for an uncomfortable interval, then slowly raised his eyes to meet those of the portrait’s subject.

  This painting was different from all of the others in the gallery, in that it portrayed two subjects, an older man with his arm around the shoulders of a youth. The older man was dressed all in bright cloth of gold, and he could have been a twin of the current mountain prince, save for a more muscular frame, and eyes that were set a bit further apart in his countenance, a phenomenon that made him look somehow kinder than Lord Drogue. There was sadness in those eyes, underscored, as they were, with a hint of shadow, and the arm that rested on the shoulders of the painted youth gave the impression both of ownership and of protection. It was a masterful painter, now forgotten, who had been able to capture so much subtext with mere cloth and color.

  The young man in the painting did not bear a close resemblance to Lord Drogue, or to any of the other portraits on the walls. He was tall and well filled out, with broad shoulders, and wavy brown hair that framed an open, friendly face with a genuine smile. Richly dressed, with a touch more lace and ornament than that displayed by his elder, one might assume he favored his mother more truly in both face and temperament.

  Lord Drogue smiled, but the gesture did not touch his eyes. “Yes, Father, I could not leave without paying my respects to you, and to my dear brother, Abendor. I trust you might have overheard my intention to take the throne? Doubtless you can scarce believe a ‘worthless, ill-conceived mistake’ such as you always called me, could ever pull off such a stunning achievement. Ah, but you always did underestimate me, father. For you, it was always Abendor. Abendor this, and Abendor that; Abendor the golden child, the light in your eye – a light that was snuffed out once he was gone. Poor Abendor. You never did believe me about the accident, father, did you. But seriously, did you think I was such a monster as to wish harm on my own brother? Hmm? Did you? And if your worst fears were proven true, what did I ever get out of it, eh? Certainly not the transfer of your affection, or any attention from you whatever excepting your contempt. Well, perhaps now, you will turn that noble head in my direction and take notice. You will see your son, your misbegotten, second son, ascend the throne of all of Eneri Clare, a throne he captured with his own wit and strong arm. And, you will perhaps beg my forgiveness for never thinking that I was worthy of your respect. We will see who is worthy in the end, old man. We will see who holds all the aces…” Drogue glared at the portrait one moment more with narrowed eyes, then turned on his heel and strode from the gallery, leading with the top of his head like a bull about to gore and toss aside some frustrating obstacle in his path. Generations of Drogues stared after him, moved by neither his promises, nor his taunts.

  SIXTEEN

  Celebrations

  OVER THE COURSE OF THE next week, Theriole, its grounds, and indeed the entire city of Therin were abuzz with public preparations for a Coronation – an event which usually took place only once or twice in a lifetime. There was work for every soul who sought it. Gold and silver were changing hands in a steady stream in all the shops, and a spring-like excitement lifted everyone’s mood from under the shadow of autumn’s catastrophes. The rains finally came in earnest during the first part of the week, which wrought havoc at the tented campsites of all the visiting lords and ladies, but could not dampen the enthusiasm with which everyone prepared for the coming event. Life was good. Order would be restored. A king would be crowned and his regent set in place.

  The economy boomed as clothing, foodstuffs, and decorations had to be crafted and purchased, entertainments rehearsed, and halls scrubbed sparkling for the gala festivities. A week was not nearly enough time to prepare for such an enormous affair. But, Jorelial Rey, and her steward Bargarelle had been putting the pieces in place for months, in anticipation. Lord Drogue’s petulant tirade was all but forgotten in the atmosphere of hope and delight which buoyed the entire kingdom, and most who even remembered it wrote the incident off as idle ramblings from a disgruntled border lord, or perhaps a touch of indigestion.
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  Quiet preparations were also going forward for Mark and Delphine’s wedding, which, partly for expedience and partly out of some perverse sense of humor, was to take place in a lovely, obscure corner of the palace gardens on the very morning of Coronation day. It was to be an intimate, private affair among the flowers and statuary; just the happy couple, Rel and Tvrdik, Mark’s family, and Nyree – Mark’s teacher and head of the harpers’ guild. She was one of the most seasoned and respected bards in all the kingdom, and despite her white hair and failing eyesight, she still had a voice of such unearthly beauty that it stopped people in midstride. No one knew exactly how old she was, and there were rumors that she was half elf, or fairy – rumors she would neither confirm nor deny. Listening to her, one was easily convinced that they were true. Nyree rarely ventured far from her home these days, but she had always been rather fond of Mark, and he prevailed upon her to come and officiate at the ceremony as his special gift to his bride. Delphine would have loved to have included the young king Darian in her wedding party as well, since they had always shared a special bond. But with his Coronation just hours away, and legitimate security concerns, his attendance was judged to be an unwise move. Delphine was disappointed, but made the sacrifice for everyone’s peace of mind. Tvrdik managed to wrangle Stewart an invitation, a gesture which thrilled the big dog almost into a frenzy. Tashroth, too, would be able to stand nearby on a clear stretch of lawn, and oversee the proceedings.

  Jorelial Rey had at first been furious to learn that Tvrdik had divulged all of his secrets to her sister on the night of the Grand Council. But Delphine swore on everything she held dear that no one except Mark would hear a word from her lips, until Rel deemed it wise to reveal Tvrdik’s true identity in public, and the Lady Regent calmed down. In fact, it was a relief to have someone close to her know what was going on, someone she could talk to freely without keeping key points concealed. And she was delighted that Delphine had invited Tvrdik to be a part of her wedding ceremony. He had been privy, in his brief time there, to all the drama leading up to the occasion; it only seemed fair that he should also share in the happy conclusion.

  After the Grand Council, Tvrdik had gone back to work on The Cottage, redoubling his efforts to get himself moved in by week’s end, as Mark’s family would be taking his rooms at the palace. On rainy days, he worked indoors: cleaning, scrubbing, arranging, and decorating the rooms in which he expected to be living and working. He took Lady Rey at her word, and revisited the market one day to order curtains, hangings, kitchen necessaries, and a new feather mattress for the bedroom (he had grown rather accustomed to the one in his palace chamber). He wasn’t by nature extravagant, but she had said he should be comfortable, and he realized he was outfitting this house for the foreseeable future. Two new soft chairs followed for the sitting room (as he would likely be entertaining visitors there), as well as a new chair for the library, and several throw rugs for the floor. Paint and brushes came back with him as well, and he set about making the bedroom and sitting room inviting. Stewart was there almost all the time now, keeping him company, and assisting where possible. The dog seemed to have decided he had a personal stake in this project. And, though no words were exchanged on the subject, Tvrdik would have been most happy to have Stewart just move in. Whenever the weather cleared, the mage spent his time outdoors in the garden attempting to salvage what useful vegetation still grew there. He weeded and dug and cut back and moved things until he was fairly sure the herb garden and some of the root crops would thrive. Anything else that was already flowering, he left alone for sheer delight. It was all exhausting physical labor, but he was accustomed to hard work, and tackled the challenges with fervor, buoyed by the prospect of settling into a place of his own.

  Delphine came by one afternoon at midweek, and dragged him off to the market again to help her shop for wedding things. It turned out that she actually did want his help in selecting accessories, but that the main item on the agenda was fitting him for a new suit of clothing appropriate to his role in the ceremony. Tvrdik was a little squeamish about the cost of the fashions the young bride preferred, but in the end, he let her dress him, reasoning that for this one occasion, everything should be as close to perfect as possible in her eyes. They settled on a tailored, long silk jacket in a rich cobalt blue, with buttons of gold and gold-threaded embroidery across the breast and down the sleeves. Matching leggings and dyed soft boots completed the picture, which was, he had to admit, very complimentary to his frame and coloring. Delphine was having the time of her life, and was positively glowing, Tvrdik noticed. Her mood was contagious – she had him laughing and exchanging stories throughout the afternoon as if they had been friends for ages. She also took the time to explain in detail exactly what would be expected of him at the traditional joining ceremony in his capacity as surrogate father, and she walked him through the simple rituals involved.

  Later that day, between rehearsals for the Coronation music, Mark joined them to help move all of the mage’s things into the freshly refurbished home, and Tvrdik invited the young couple and Stewart to stay for tea. What a delight to be able to actually offer hospitality to his new friends! They ended up staying into the evening in serious discussion of Xaarus’ plan for defending the kingdom against Lord Drogue, should things come to that. Mark revealed himself as a serious, principled young man who embraced the idea of bloodless, creative warfare right away. He contributed many good ideas of his own, and promised to work on enlisting the whole company of harpers as allies in the project as soon as the word was given.

  After Mark and Delphine had finally departed for the palace on that warm, starry evening, Tvrdik stood at the gate and reflected that it had only been a few short weeks since his arrival as a stranger in rags, alone, unknown, and carrying a great burden. Already he was settling into his own home, dressing like royalty, spending happy times with good friends and sharing his burden with partners who were eager to help. He sighed and looked up at a clear night sky liberally sprinkled with bright, pulsing lights. Then the young mage closed his eyes, a prayer of gratitude overflowing his heart. Returning inside, he doused the lamps and retired for the first time to his own bed in Xaarus’ old bedroom, in the house he was slowly making his own. He slept peacefully, without dreams.

  The next day was Friday, and with both ceremonies looming, Tvrdik decided to take a rare day for rest and regeneration. There was always more work to do, but most of it could wait now. What was essential for his simple needs was in place, and even beginning to seem cozy. Stewart excused himself to take care of some personal business. So, after fixing himself breakfast and cleaning up after, the young wizard found himself with time on his hands. He wandered into the library, which had been his master’s pride and joy, and let his eyes wander over all the titles at eye level. Many he recognized from his studies so long ago. A few were in foreign tongues, or had titles so long and technical that he mentally put them aside for another day. One volume stood out, catching his eye several times as he scanned the shelves. It was called, The Qualities and Uses of Colored Vibrational Energy – a Comprehensive Guide. Well, that sounded as dry as the rest, but it was as if some unseen hand was insisting that he notice that particular tome. So he pulled it out of its place, blew off the dust, and sat down in his new comfortable chair by the cold library hearth, adjusted his glasses and opened the front cover. The book was quite old, written by hand in a graceful looping script. Something about its feel drew him in instantly. Almost an afterthought, he flicked a finger and created a hovering glow right above his chair…though it was high morning the book-lined library walls did not allow for sufficient windows, and he had long ago learned a hard lesson about reading in dim light. He called for sweet tea to prepare and deliver itself to him where he sat, and settled into his study in earnest.

  Several hours, chapters, and cups of tea later, he emerged from the ancient, fragile pages feeling like he had just stumbled into a great treasure trove of important
information. But his brain was saturated and he needed a breath of air and a change of scenery. He unfolded stiff limbs from the chair, turned off his magical reading light, laid the book on the seat with care, and sent the tea things back to the kitchen to sort themselves out (there were indeed some perks to being even a novice wizard). Stewart had not returned, but the day remained bright and pleasant, fresh after all the rain. He let himself out, and peered down the road toward Theriole. But he could imagine how everyone in the palace would be overwhelmed with tasks and preparations for the events of the following day. There would be a great deal of bustling about and frantic activity in nearly every corner. He decided that he might be more in the way than helpful, and let his feet wander in the other direction, to the little secret sanctuary on the riverbank where he had liberated Ondine.

  Warm in the bright sun after the exertion of walking, he took off his shirt and boots, folded them and placed them on a boulder. He sat down in his accustomed place on the sun-baked flat rock, his bare feet dangling in the cool, rushing waters. Dappled sunshine filtered through leafy branches, tracing shifting patterns on his chest and legs. He set his hands down on the bare rock behind, leaned back and turned his face, eyes closed, up to the shining sky. Sounds of all sorts tumbled into his ears: birdsong, insects buzzing very close, rustling leaves and creaking branches tossed by a breeze, rushing water in rhythmic flow. He loosed the reigns of his mind awhile, after having spent the morning in deep concentration, and allowed it to drift where it would. But today, it went nowhere in particular, choosing instead to revel in observation, in vacant openness. Tvrdik enjoyed staying busy, but now and then it felt good just to be alive and aware, present in the moment, immersed in nature, no past or future, no hopes or dreams or plans, no problems needing to be solved, no anxieties or fears, guilt or grief. Just sensory input and the leisure to enjoy it. He did not know how long he remained in that position, sun on his face and earth’s music in his ears, when another tune imposed itself on the subtle symphony – something familiar and pointed – a whistle, an awkward, charming melody. Tvrdik sat straight up, opened his eyes and blinked at the sight of a smiling blue face suspended only inches from his own. Then it vanished, plunged into the waters below, startling him with the usual shower of droplets and causing him to cry out in good-natured protest.