The Simbul's Gift

by Lynn Abbey

  None had come closer than Szass Tam had been a year ago, before some major conspiracy had collapsed and driven him into hiding. But the lich would rise again and again, until he was destroyed, which was why a zulkir like Aznar Thrul needed not only allies among his peers, but a tharchionate as well. History showed—Thrul was an avid student of history—that the man who succeeded an ambitious failure, such as Szass Tam must inevitably become, would reap the rewards his predecessor had been denied: a unified Thay and seven puppet zulkirs.

  Every Red Wizard, especially a zulkir, should have a guiding dream. Until his was reality, however, Invocation relied on tradition, on Convocation and, however reluctantly, on the Chairmaster. The thought that Szass Tam might have subverted the Chairmaster before he’d found the way to do so himself was a bone in Thrul’s throat.

  The current Chairmaster had been an illusionist before his elevation, years before Thrul or Mythrell’aa had begun to claw to the top of their respective specialties. Thrul’s own grandfather, Nymor, Lord Illusion in that time, had branded him. Aznar Thrul had counted on the Chairmaster’s memory playing in his favor when the right time came, but had Mythrell’aa beaten him?

  “You’d be a fool,” Thrul said very quietly, very calmly. “The last Chairmaster who betrayed his office still bathes in fire beneath Thaymount. You might find yourself joining him or, worse, sitting in one of Larloch’s chairs yourself.”

  To his credit, the Chairmaster never flinched. He sipped his wine as if he’d heard nothing. Either the man was innocent of deception—a rarity among Red Wizards—or he was a master of it.

  Larloch, reputedly a sorcerer-king of ancient Netheril, had flourished and vanished millennia ago, leaving a legacy of artifacts that tempted many a young wizard to his or her doom. The legend of his eight chairs, magical voids from which no spell could be cast, into which no harm could come, had proved real enough. Seated in his or her chair, attuned not only to the appropriate wizardly discipline but to purely individual differences, a zulkir was both powerless and invulnerable.

  Naturally, every zulkir from Buvaar on contrived to maximize the powerlessness of the others while maintaining, or increasing, his own invulnerability. At Thrul’s ideal Convocation, seven other zulkirs would sit rigid and helpless in their chairs, their lives and their disciples’ lives held permanently hostage to his whim. Real Convocations, however, demanded compromise.

  Hence, the chairkeepers, eight wizards whose sole task was guarding the particular chair placed in their possession, and the Chairmaster, who alone could order the chairs assembled for a Convocation. The Chairmaster also guaranteed the safe passage of the zulkirs as they came to sit and, later, depart.

  The Mighty Tharchion, Mightier Zulkir maintained the best of all possible relationships with his own chairkeeper, a diviner by training.

  “Have you accepted my terms?” Thrul asked, thinking of his supper going to waste in front of him. The Chairmaster was known to practice the diplomacy of unlimited patience.

  “They are faultless, Lord Invocation, as you knew. The ’keepers will select a suitable chamber—”

  “I’d prefer an open location. The slave market will suffice. I’ll declare a holiday; the market will be closed.”

  The Chairmaster nodded. “Weather permitting; I cannot control the weather in a priest-ridden city like this one. If you would choose another place …?”

  “I’ve chosen. I have my own charges to bring. It is not I who trespass against Illusion, but Illusion that trespasses against me, and in trespassing against me, trespasses against my city, which is a trespass against Thay, which is a trespass against all Red Wizards. I have proof.”

  “Most irregular, Lord Invocation. If you have proof, you should have called the Convocation yourself. Illusion will not be prepared.”

  “Exactly.”

  The Chairmaster stood; his chair vanished. “I will tell the others what has been said here,” he warned.

  “I’m counting on it.”

  The Chairmaster seemed about to speak: his chin lifted, his brow furrowed, but he said nothing and with a flash of golden light followed his chair into thin air. Thrul finished his eggs. They were warm now but they hadn’t lost their flavor. Ignoring the pickled rice, he turned his attention to his main course: peppered gnolls’ tongues in aspic. No wonder the slaves had been so anxious. He poured a black sauce over the quivering mound and savored the fragrant steam it produced.

  “O Mighty Tharchion—”

  “Go away.”

  “Mightier Zulkir. It is that woman again. The one with the carnelian; the one without a name.”

  Thrul stared at the dissolving mound on his plate. If he didn’t eat it quickly, it wouldn’t be worth eating at all. With an angry sigh, he pushed away from the table.

  “Dispose of it,” he told the chamberlain, “and I will see the woman in my bedchamber. Clothed or unclothed, however she wishes.”

  She wished for clothing, but was quite willing to remove her garments—another little disappointment in an altogether frustrating day. She was, however, a challenging partner, which Thrul would never have expected. It raised a host of questions and possibilities, best left until after tomorrow’s Convocation.

  “The Chairmaster has been here,” he said afterward, when they were both dressed.

  “I saw him depart.”

  An overstatement. The Chairmaster wouldn’t have reappeared within Bezantur’s walls. He let the comment slide, for now. “Are you ready?” he asked.

  “Even now our spies in the southern cities have moved into the Aglarondan forest. Communication with them will be difficult—impossible—but they are our finest. They understand what must be done, even if we cannot tell them what to do.”

  He thought he saw a glimmer of falsehood in her eyes as she spoke of serving his interests and probed her mind subtly. Her thoughts betrayed no secrets, no anxiety, until she sensed his spellcast probe.

  “Ask any question, my lord. I have no secrets.”

  “Have you learned anything closer to home?”

  “My net is not cast close to home,” she replied, guileless words and thoughts clear as mountain water. “Yet I think your noose around Illusion is not yet tight.”

  Thrul thought of the minions he’d let out this morning, and thought he’d caught the woman at last. “How would you know that?” he asked.

  “The House of Illusion in Tilbrand has sent some of its own out into the world. They follow an interesting path, a northeast path, my lord, to the Aglarondan forest.”

  First, the Chairmaster arrived early, now this. Mythrell’aa, then, had other means to work her will outside her tower, and had been using them. “What does this mean, woman?”

  “That we are not the only ones looking for something in the Yuirwood. That we will not be alone when we find it.”

  17

  Everlund, near the High Forest

  After sundown, the eighteenth day of Eleasias, The Year of the Banner (1368DR)

  When folk gathered for discussion, the Simbul was most often to be found—or not found—eavesdropping from the chandelier, disguised as a candle. She defended her deceit, saying that her presence inhibited those voices she most needed to hear, but the truth was that Alassra Shentrantra didn’t like formal gatherings, and a gathering arranged by Alustriel with three elven sages was as formal as a gathering could get. She would have stayed home, if she hadn’t been certain that Alustriel would show up, concerned about her well-being, and demand that she hie herself up to Everlund.

  Bowing to the inevitable, Alassra had delved the depths of her wardrobe before conjuring a gray gown scarcely different than the one she usually wore—except it wasn’t torn, frayed, or stained. The setting sun was still a handspan above the horizon when she cast the spell that whisked her north to Silverymoon. Alustriel was waiting, serenely beautiful in sapphire and silver.

  “Did you forget your jewelry?”

  Alassra displayed her rings, each charged with spells. “
I don’t wear fancy stones.”

  “They don’t have to be fancy ’Las, but the Tel’Quessir are a formal people. You have to finish things with them. Finishing tells them who you are.”

  “There isn’t an elf alive who doesn’t know who I am, what I am. If it bothers them, they shouldn’t have agreed to meet with me.” A stray thought crossed her mind. “You did tell them they’d be meeting with me didn’t you? You didn’t tell them I’d changed?”

  “They wouldn’t have believed me, if I had.”

  Satisfied, Alassra linked hands with Alustriel and followed her magically from Silverymoon to an ancient grove where an oblong menhir rested atop a number of smaller stones.

  It was not the sort of place where Alassra could ever feel comfortable. She had nothing against the elves. After six hundred odd years of living, she had great respect for anyone older than her. But the older she got, the more she appreciated the differences between the two races. The Elven Retreat made perfect sense to her: she wished them well and far away. In her grand plan for Faerûn’s future, the elves would have the eastern march of Thay, beyond Lake Thaylambar. That thoroughly despoiled land was far enough away, or would be, when she was done with the Red Wizards, and Aglarond, too.

  Alassra’s discomfort was compounded by the realization that the sages were waiting for them.

  “I thought you said sundown,” she whispered angrily.

  “I did. That’s what was agreed. These are not the Tel’Quessir I spoke to; I don’t know them. But they’ve come. I’m sure there are reasons for everything, ’Las. Please don’t be difficult.”

  Hearing voices, the sages roused from their meditations. They did not, as Alassra feared, establish themselves on the wise side of the stone, talking down to short-lived, shortsighted humans. The youngest of the elves, not apparently a sage but a servant, spread a quilt of moonlight-pale silken patchwork over the grass then finished it with a circle of six plump cushions. Taking her cues from Alustriel, Alassra shed her sandals before stepping on the quilt and sitting on one of the cushions. The servant handed her a silver beaker of ice-cold nectar and offered a piece of honey-glazed shortbread—her favorite dessert and almost certainly a peace-offering.

  Alassra glanced at her sister, who smiled and said nothing.

  The elven servant served the sages, then seated himself on the last cushion. “It would help,” he began without formality, “if you explained the things that trouble you in your own words. Begin at the beginning and leave nothing out. There may be something of significance that we would otherwise overlook.”

  Alassra’s temper flared. She wasn’t a child with a faulty memory; she was …

  She was a queen who’d grown accustomed to the prerogatives and privileges of royalty when she should have known better.

  “It began with a vision while I was napping. A voice said Zandilar. The vision showed me a black-maned horse the color of winter twilight …”

  The elves scarcely moved while the Simbul told the story, as much of it as she could honestly remember on a moment’s notice, leaving out only the bits about how her mirror peered into Thay. Fortified with a second beaker of nectar, Alassra spoke of Lailomun Zerad for the first time since she had accepted her Chosen heritage. It was a tale no one had ever heard, not the elves, not her sister, not even her own ears. There were tears in Alustriel’s eyes when she finished. The elves saw the matter differently.

  One of the sages, a black-haired Moon elf with a fondness for knives, six of which could be seen sprouting from his sleeves, boots, and belt, leaned forward to ask: “This personal enmity between you and the Zulkir of Illusion, how does it bear on the question of Zandilar?”

  Again the storm queen felt her hackles rise, again she quelled them. “I don’t know if it bears on Zandilar. What I do know is that Mythrell’aa has learned of my interest in the horse and, because of Lailomun Zerad, will presume my interest in the Cha’Tel’Quessir, Ebroin of MightyTree. She will pursue them because they are important to me. The other zulkirs will pursue Mythrell’aa, because they are Red Wizards and they swarm whenever one of them has something the others don’t. If it were a matter of simply protecting a boy and a horse, I would do that, and I wouldn’t be here asking your advice. But it’s the Yuirwood, too, and the Cha’Tel’Quessir, and Zandilar, about whom I can learn very little, except that she was called ‘the Dancer’ and that there’s a small stone bearing her name in the Sunglade inside a circle of larger, Seldarine stones.”

  Alassra leaned forward until her eyes were level with the Moon elf’s. “My suspicions are as sharp as your knives, Honored One. I suspect there’s a good reason for that outer circle and I suspect the Tel’Quessir would rather no one but them knew what that reason was.”

  The Moon elf held her glowering stare a moment before straightening his back. He and the other elves looked as if they’d just swallowed something sour. The third sage, a Gold elf of uncommonly fierce demeanor drummed his long fingers together, weighing his words before saying:

  “The Red Wizards are their own reward, their own curse. Their quarrels fall hard on their neighbors, but they, themselves, are vermin. What they represent cannot be eliminated from humanity, but it must be confined, kept out of important places.”

  “Like the Yuirwood’s Sunglade?” Alassra demanded around her sister who sat silently between her and the Gold elf.

  “It would be unwise if they gained a foothold there,” the Gold elf said.

  Alassra gave him a moment’s grace to elaborate. He obliged.

  “The Tel’Quessir were not the first in the forest. There were others there when they came. Men and women like you—”

  “No,” the last sage said. She was an elven woman so old there was no color left in her skin or her hair. Opal cataracts clouded her eyes. Her arms, protruding from the white sleeves of her gown, were shrunken twigs that seemed too fragile to lift her hands. Yet she sipped nectar before continuing. “When the Yuir came to Abeir-toril they found men and women like no others. The forest had hidden them, like creatures caught on a island. They lived and worshiped alone, until the Tel’Quessir arrived.”

  The elven men, the Moon elf sage, the Gold elf, and the younger servant, averted their eyes when the old woman spoke. They did not agree with her, Alassra thought, but they weren’t about to disagree in front of humans. The Simbul seized her chance to exploit elven reticence.

  “After they arrived, did the Tel’Quessir conquer the Yuir folk and their gods?”

  The Gold elf answered quickly, “The Tel’Quessir do not commit conquest.”

  “Not by intent,” the Moon elf corrected. Alassra studied him from the corner of her eye. She’d judged him the least sympathetic, but perhaps she’d judged wrong. More likely Zandilar and the Yuirwood had been a sore point with Faerûn’s elves for a very long time. The latter notion seemed true when the Gold elf threw his attention at the Moon elf, not her.

  “Relkath, Magnar, Zandilar! They were wild gods,” he hissed across the circle. “Those who worshiped them were wild, too, or became wild. If they had tamed themselves … But that went against their nature. Another path had to be secured before the Tel’Quessir lost their way in the Yuirwood.”

  The sages lapsed into a discussion in archaic elvish, full of names and events that meant nothing to Alassra. The words meant something to Alustriel. Though the High Lady of Silverymoon listened as still and silent as Alassra, barely perceptible changes in her expression betrayed her interest and surprise as the sages debated what had happened long ago.

  The Moon elf blamed the forest, saying it was too old, too wild for the Tel’Quessir. “We were wrong to go there, more wrong to stay. The Yuirwood shaped the Yuir, not the other way around. We should have left it to those who were there when we came.”

  “Aye,” the Gold elf retorted, with all the subtle scorn elves could cram into a single, small word. “Aye, and if we left it … if the coronals had shirked their duty or our gods had shirked theirs, then what, Stiwelen?
Would you rather others had come to take our place? They were a lesser folk with lesser gods. They were bound to be overtaken.”

  Stiwelen, the Moon elf, scowled. He fondled the gemstone pommels of his knives and said nothing.

  Undaunted by the silence among the elves, Alassra entered the discussion. “There was an elven Time of Troubles?” she suggested, referring to the turbulent years, recently passed, when the gods of humanity had warred among themselves in mortal time and mortal form. The elves said nothing; Alassra took that for agreement. “And the Sunglade circles commemorate the Seldarine taming the old, wild powers of the Yuirwood?”

  The old woman raised her head. “It was done,” she said and stared at the Simbul.

  “The Tel’Quessir Seldarine enlightened the old ones and adopted them, as parents to children,” the Gold elf added.

  “As cousins at a wedding,” Stiwelen corrected, a needling smile on his lean face. Alassra was starting to warm to him, though perhaps it was his knives. “There was enlightenment—if you choose to call it that—in all directions.”

  The Gold elf made a fist and opened his mouth, but the old woman spoke faster. “It was done,” she repeated her earlier statement. “The old ones accepted the Tel’Quessir. The Seldarine accepted the old ones. The Yuirwood accepted the elves; they accepted the Yuirwood. It was all done.”

  “But it didn’t last. Humans came to the land they named Aglarond, and the Yuir elves began their own Retreat.”

  “Not a Retreat,” Stiwelen said bitterly. “The Yuir elves couldn’t Retreat. They’d bound themselves to the forest. They doomed themselves.”

  Alassra hid her surprise. She’d always assumed—the Cha’Tel’Quessir themselves assumed—that the Yuir elves had Retreated from the forest to Evermeet. “Doomed? They aren’t …? They all died?”