by Lynn Abbey
"My lord, Deaizul often possessed those he spied upon. He lived their lives and served Thay until the Salamander Wars. His nerves broke."
Thrul took the second egg from the upper right corner. He juggled them from one hand to the other, he feigned clumsiness, but never lost control. It was however, impossible to guess which was which. "And you, woman, how are your nerves today?"
"My nerves are as they always have been. I have nothing to hide, my lord."
"Nothing but a plan hatched between you, your lover, and Mythrell'aa to lure me out of Bezantur with illusions of Aglarondan treasure. No, woman-mistakes will not be repeated."
He smashed the eggs together. The spy master's last thought, as her essence escaped, was that Aznar Thrul was a greater fool than she'd imagined possible.
Rizcarn had been stumbling and walking erratically for the last leg of the trek to the Sunglade. Behind him, Alassra and Halaern had exchanged more than a few worried glances. Nothing more than that was possible with the circlet resting on the queen's brow rather the forester's. In addition to watching Rizcarn, Alassra kept an eye on the Yuirwood itself. Centuries of experience dealing with corrupt wizards argued that Mythrell'aa wouldn't move again until they were in the Sunglade and the full moon was directly overhead. But centuries of experience wouldn't accurately predict the future.
The sun was an orange blaze sinking through rose and amber clouds when they cleared the ridge that girdled the Sunglade like a mother's open arms. It had been years-decades-since Alassra's one and only visit to the Yuirwood's best known, most mysterious stone circle. She'd forgotten how small it was. The inner circle wasn't more than five paces across-scarcely enough for eleven Cha'Tel'Quessir, a goddess and a dancing horse.
The Sunglade grew as they descended the ridge, a natural phenomenon of perspective and light from the setting sun. Rays struck mica crystals in the black granite stones and transformed them into giant jewels. Seeing the stones at sunset made it easy to understand why they were collectively called the Sunglade. Age and power hung in the air, not malicious, merely watching, waiting, as they had for centuries or millennia.
Alassra was awed, as she hadn't been during her other visit. Then the Sunglade had been a relic from another time, irrelevant to the Aglarond the Simbul ruled from Velprintalar. Now, looking out through Chayan SilverBranch's eyes, she felt the sad yearning of forgotten gods.
"I am not so certain I should go closer," she said, for Halaern's ears alone. "This is a Cha'Tel'Quessir place. It belongs to the Cha'Tel'Quessir alone." Alassra heard her own words: she had missed a turning point somewhere in her own mind. The Cha'Tel'Quessir weren't half-anything; they were fully themselves with a unique heritage and a destiny that could not be assumed by either humans or the Tel'Quessir.
Halaern studied her, a ghost of a smile playing with the corners of his mouth. "I am very glad you came back to the Yuirwood, cousin."
Other words would have been unnecessary and unwise. The Cha'Tel'Quessir around them had accepted the forester's sudden appearance, but their opinions of Chayan SilverBranch hadn't changed since she'd said that Zandilar the Dancer had healed Rizcarn's son. They accepted her as they might not accept Aglarond's queen.
They were fifty paces short of the Sunglade's outer ring, with Rizcarn some ten paces ahead of them, when Rizcarn stumbled again and, this time, fell to the ground.
"The Yuirwood expressing its opinion?" Alassra asked, breaking into a run.
Halaern remained behind, using his position as forester and elder of a most respected tree-family to keep the other eight Cha'Tel'Quessir from crowding his queen as she looked for signs of Red Wizardry. The Simbul was grateful, but she wanted his opinion.
"Cousin?"
He knelt beside her. "What is it?"
"A man asleep, as near as I can tell. That gash on his face wants mending and I haven't wanted to touch it for fear of tipping my hand, as it were."
"You wish me to try?"
Alassra nodded. The forester's healing talents were enhanced by the circlet she'd given him, but not derived from it. All the foresters practiced a form of simple druidry unique to the Yuirwood and effective within its bounds. Halaern laid his hands on either side of the gash, near Rizcarn's temples. He closed his eyes a moment, then sat back on his heels, frowning.
"This is Rizcarn," he whispered. "Once dead and crazy as a magpie in spring, but Rizcarn all the same. We've suspected him wrongly, my lady."
"I think otherwise, cousin. I think whatever had a hold of him has let go-for good. What bothers me is I have no idea to whom or what we owe this bit of good fortune. I was hoping you'd detect a Cha'Tel'Quessir god's hand moving through his thoughts."
"He serves Relkath, my lady. It is a thankless service. The gods of the Yuirwood-" Halaern shrugged. "Some things are best left asleep. Do you wish me to heal his face and arm?"
Flesh knit together under the forester's capable fingers, leaving jagged scars that would fade with time. Rizcarn hadn't moved during the healing nor when they called his name. They were exchanging worried glances again and the Cha'Tel'Quessir were creeping closer when Rizcarn's eyes fluttered open. He sat up too quickly and fell back with a groan. Halaern leapt to his feet and, spreading his arms, kept the Cha'Tel'Quessir at a distance while Alassra waited until Rizcarn was ready to sit again, then stand.
"How are you feeling?"
Rizcarn pursed his lips and gave the question evident thought. "Better."
He cocked his head, staring at the woman who had helped him. Once before he'd stared at Chayan, and the Simbul had looked away, fearing that his dark eyes could pierce her deceptions. She had no similar sense this time, though it was obvious Rizcarn was recalling memories and reorganizing his thoughts. He let out his breath with a weary sigh.
"I have not been myself, Chayan SilverBranch. These have been terrible days. Terrible, terrible days since Relkath told me where to find my son with Zandilar's Dancer."
Alassra was inclined to agree, but surprised that he saw events the same way. "Your son is missing, taken, we think, by Red Wizards from Thay." She watched for Rizcarn's reaction.
"A terrible thing. Yes. Such a man waited for me, a Red Wizard from Thay. I killed him, but that wasn't enough. He became part of me. I turned to Relkath, but there was nothing Relkath could do, so I did what I was meant to do while Relkath found a way to free me."
"Now, as we drew close to the Sunglade, Relkath overcame the Red Wizard's influence?" It was not an explanation the Simbul had considered.
"I am myself again. I am here at the Sunglade with the Cha'Tel'Quessir. I have done Relkath's work and he has rewarded me. There is no doubt in my mind, Chayan SilverBranch. How can there be doubt in yours? You serve Zandilar; I see her presence within you. Through you, she healed my son-" Rizcarn took Alassra's arm and pulled her closer so he could whisper in her ear. "Relkath forgives you for last night, during the storm. He was only trying to free me. You should not have fought him."
Alassra smiled. "I didn't know," she said and nodded awkwardly when he released her arm. Rizcarn was, as Halaern said, "Once dead and crazy as a magpie in spring." He was, however, as much himself as he was ever likely to be and-for whatever reason, with whatever help-free of Thayan influence.
He took her arm again, suddenly and tightly. "Lanig… Lanig! Relkath, forgive me! I killed my friend Lanig because he guessed I was not myself."
The Simbul pried herself loose. "That is between you and Relkath."
"Yes. Yes, you're right. I will listen to the trees. There is still time. The moon won't rise until the sky is dark. Zandilar won't come until midnight. There's time. I will tell the others what they must do."
Rizcarn moved out of her shadow. He took a few steps toward Halaern and the others, then stopped, staring at the forester as if he hadn't expected to see him.
"Trovar YuirWood, old friend, why are you here?" Rizcarn's tone belied his greeting.
Halaern separated from the other Cha'Tel'Quessir. "I go where I'm ne
eded. I was needed here."
"This is not your path, Trovar YuirWood. You chose a different one a long time ago. Giving that crown to your cousin changes nothing in your heart, Trovar YuirWood. You don't belong here."
To Alassra's surprise, her friend simply nodded and started walking away. She called him back, the verdigrised circlet in her outstretched hand. He replaced it on his brow.
I would rather you stayed. There's no telling what he'll do without the Red Wizard keeping him sane! Alassra meant the words in jest, though there was truth in them.
He serves Relkath, my lady. I serve you. The breach cannot be spanned. I won't be far.
The Simbul watched him go, wondering if every Cha'Tel'Quessir had to work out his or her personal relationship with the Yuirwood gods, just like every human and every elf. When Rizcarn muttered, "Good riddance!" at the forester's shadow she lost her infamous temper.
"We needed him!" she shouted, then-remembering that Rizcarn thought she served Zandilar-she added. "I needed him. Who will dance with me? Who will ride my damned horse?"
Rizcarn was unperturbed. "Wait. Be patient. Relkath will provide."
Alassra Shentrantra did not wait well. She had never mastered patience. She went into the forest to seal herself in silence and prepare the spells she thought she might need later in the evening. That didn't take much time; she was always prepared for trouble. Her eight Cha'Tel'Quessir companions, whatever their other virtues-and she was certain they must have some-were as interesting as the sky on a cloudless day. Halaern was out in the laurel. Bro was imprisoned, enduring torment only a zulkir would imagine. And Rizcarn was sitting in the middle of the inner stone circle, once again aglow with a silver-green aura. By Alassra's best guess, the moon was still several handspans below the eastern horizon. She'd begun to wonder how long it would take one of Mystra's immortal Chosen to die of sheer boredom.
She counted the stars as they appeared in the twilight sky. There were three hundred and twenty-two when Rizcarn hoisted himself to his feet.
"The 'Glade," he announced, "is ready. We are ready to dance for Zandilar."
Truth to tell, Alassra Shentrantra wasn't much of a dancer, either. Court dances with their pattern steps were worse than boring and the ecstatic dancing Rizcarn described asked too much of a wizard who enjoyed spontaneity only when she was in complete control of it. When Rizcarn proposed that she dance alone at the center of the circles while he led the Cha'Tel'Quessir in a vine dance among the inner stones she came within a heartbeat of heading straight back to Velprintalar.
"I thought Zandilar was going to do all the dancing," she protested.
"Zandilar will! Zandilar will awaken from the ground. She will become one with you, Chayan. You and she will dance together."
"Someone else should have the honor. I've been away from the Yuirwood for so long that I've forgotten how to dance."
She looked toward the women among the Cha'Tel'Quessir: three of them, each young enough to seduce a man with their dancing. They all refused to meet Alassra's eyes.
"You are the one to dance Zandilar's part," Rizcarn persisted. "You serve her; she's chosen you. It doesn't matter where you've been. The dance is part of you; your body remembers it from childhood. Come." He beckoned her toward the circles. "Take your place."
Grimly-she'd rather face a score of Red Wizards, ten-score of Red Wizards-Alassra unbuckled her sword belt. "Will there be music?" she asked as she walked past Rizcarn. "Or do I have to remember that, too?"
Rizcarn produced a set of silver pipes. "I will make the melody, the forest and the 'Glade will make the rest."
There were ten stones in the inner circle; one for each of them. Alassra read Relkath's name on one, Magnar and Elikarashae on two more, Zandilar's on a fourth, above the old Espruar rune for dancing. If she had a place, then Zandilar's stone was it and she started for it.
The Simbul wasn't Zandilar. She wasn't a dancer. There were six other stones in the circle whose inscriptions had been eroded. She picked one of those stones, the northernmost stone.
"That's the wrong stone!" Rizcarn shouted.
On impulse, Alassra knelt before the stone. She traced what remained of its inscription. There were no legible marks. It was as if its god's name had been chiseled out before time had begun its work.
"Zandilar's stone, in the west, where the moon's light will surround you."
"This is my stone," the Simbul informed him, using a tone that made gods think twice before arguing with her.
Rizcarn-or his god-got the message. "We will begin together. Chayan, you will move to the center when it is the right time." He anticipated her next question. "You will know when it is the right time. There will be no doubt."
It was plain awkward at first. Alassra was conscious of every knee, ankle, elbow, and wrist. Her back was rigid and her hips simply would not sway to the twisting, twirling music that came from Rizcarn's silver pipes. No Red Wizard or Zhentarim mage had devised a crueler torture. As moonlight peeked through the trees, awkwardness became anger-the childish, self-destructive anger that had worried her Rashemaar guardians centuries ago. Alassra struck the man behind her hard enough to knock him to the ground; she only wished it had been Rizcarn and that the whole farce would come to a halt.
But Rizcarn was out of reach on the other side of the Cha'Tel'Quessir vine. To reach him, she'd have to move across the circle. That would be dancing, alone, and the time would never be right for that.
Never.
The moon rose above the ridge, huge and so bright it hurt, like the sun, to look at its face. Anger, frustration, and the knowledge that it was hours until dawn, pushed Alassra Shentrantra to distraction. She seized her hair-Chayan's brown hair-and pulled it out by the roots, letting her hair-the Simbul's silver hair-flow into its place. She became blue eyed again, and pale skinned. She threw back her head and screamed.
The power of the Yuirwood, so like the lightning essence she called upon when she fought her enemies and yet so different, too, rose within her. It burst through the pores of her skin, her eyes and mouth, the tips of her fingers. And then, as suddenly as it had ebbed, the essence waned.
"Who will come away with me?"
Rizcarn's music had stopped. The question came from the center of the circle where a silver-form woman stood beside a twilight horse.
"Who will dance with me?"
Alassra waited with the others. Her scream, and the power that answered it, had brought a sense of peace, of oneness with the world around her, that she had rarely known before. She was ready for whatever Relkath-or the Zulkir of Illusion-provided. The subtle play of magic beyond the paired circles didn't disturb her. Two people, possibly three, stepped from the shadows of magic to the shadows of the Yuirwood: Mythrell'aa-tiny, hairless, and patterned like a deadly snake-and one, possibly two, man-shaped companions.
"Who will dance with me?" Zandilar asked.
One of Mythrell'aa's companions started walking forward. Alassra readied a spell that would release four others: three to punch through Mythrell'aa's defenses, one to whisk Bro to safety. It wouldn't take a gesture or even a word to loose them; a thought, an intention would be sufficient and not even a zulkir's reflexes would be fast enough to counteract them.
She waited for the optimum moment when Bro was closer to her than to Mythrell'aa, for the moment she could see his face.
Not his face.
Not the face of Ebroin of MightyTree, but the face of Lailomun Zerad, smiling, laughing, running toward her.
28
The Yuirwood, in Aglarond Nearing midnight, the twenty-fifth day of Eleasias, The Year of the Banner (1368DR)
Lauzoril had ridden the marble stallion for two days and nights without rest, guiding it across the breadth of Thay and into the unknown realm of Aglarond and its forest. The knife was his target, a bright star in his mind that had kept him on an unerring course until, suddenly, it had vanished early in the previous afternoon. He'd pressed on, pointed to the place where he'd last f
elt its presence: a poor excuse for a path through the everywhere tangle of laurel and briar that bothered the stallion not at all but had made the zulkir's life a misery since they'd entered the Yuirwood.
Spent magic had lain heavy on the ground where the knife had vanished. Lauzoril had determined that his knife, and the youth who carried it, had been snatched by a wizard and had been either taken very far away or was being held nearby under impenetrable, undetectable warding. Warding was the greater possibility, and Lauzoril had run down his mental list of Faerun wizards capable of hiding from a Thayan zulkir. He'd put the Zulkirs of Illusion and Invocation at the top and Aglarond's queen close by.
Then he'd backtracked the ground trails his spells had revealed. One had led him to two bands of Red Wizards, all dead, stripped of their magic artifacts, all Invokers or archers paid in Bezantur coin. The others had come together in a grove not far from the place where the knife had vanished. From there the trail had been easy enough to follow. Lauzoril had hoped it would lead him to the knife and the youth who'd captured his daughter's attention.
Instead it had led to sunset and a relic from another time: a generous score of rough-hewn stones rising from the ground like a dragon's teeth. The stallion, normally the most obedient of magical creatures, balked and would not descend the ridge from which they'd first viewed the stones. Just as well: there was little cover between the ridge and the stones where the chattel-kessir had ended their journey.
Lauzoril hid the stallion in the laurel, marking the location carefully in his mind. The trees and bushes were all alike to his eyes, accustomed as they were to the open land of Thazalhar. He liked the place, though, despite the discomforts of whiplash bushes and the countless tree limbs that crossed the stallion's straight-line path at the precise height of a mounted rider's forehead. And as for the Yuirwood's vaunted inhibition of spellcraft: he'd experienced none of it. The usual spells by which he guided the stallion had performed flawlessly, and the enchantment he cast over the horse to hide it yielded a moss-covered boulder as rugged and ancient as the stones beyond the ridge.