The Simbul's Gift
Page 35
Ebroin refused Thayan magic. He said he’d wait for Zandilar. Lauzoril didn’t argue: the young man was in no danger from his wounds and he, too, was waiting, but not for Zandilar. If anyone else escaped the last night’s destruction it would be the Simbul.
The Cha’Tel’Quessir couldn’t see the scorched ground, the bits of hair and leather that marked a circle twenty paces across, centered at the place where Mythrell’aa had fallen and including all but the northernmost stones of the outer circle. Lauzoril saw it all, and though he felt no regret for those who’d died—least of all Lady Illusion, if she were dead—he understood that there were sights a survivor of Illusion’s brand of cruelty need not have written in his memory. The zulkir had charmed Ebroin with a simple spell that left the young man seeing what he wanted most to see.
The spell would fade by midday. Lauzoril intended to be gone before then. He hadn’t decided whether he’d be traveling alone or with a half-elf behind him. The Simbul might help him decide, when she reappeared. He was confident that she would, as confident as Ebroin was about Zandilar.
Lauzoril felt magic gather within the inner circle. He laid a hand on Ebroin’s arm and motioned for him to stand. Not a complete fool, the zulkir positioned the Cha’Tel’Quessir between himself and the gathering magic and dug a fingernail into the seal of another coward’s retreat—he habitually carried a half-score of them in the studs of his belt. The hanging spell coalesced; the Simbul, silver haired, blue eyed, and wearing the soft leathers she’d worn in the moonlight, stepped onto charred grass, scorched soil.
Ebroin flinched. The zulkir clamped a firm hand on the shoulder of his mortal shield.
“Steady, lad. I told you who she would be.”
He couldn’t see the Cha’Tel’Quessir’s face but if Mimuay were to see it, she’d say his eyes were sadder, more frightened than ever. The zulkir had listened half the night to a young man’s futile dreams. He could feel them crumbling.
“Lord Lauzoril? The Mighty Zulkir of Enchantment and Charm?”
So she did know him. He smiled and nodded his head ever so slightly, not letting his eyes drift from her face, though surely she could cast her spells by will as well as he could. “If you are the Simbul, Queen of Aglarond, then I am the Zulkir of Enchantment. Lord Tavai—Lauzoril is my given name.”
A fourth figure separated from the undamaged bushes beyond the circles. The zulkir had known he and Ebroin were not alone, but the observer had made no move against them. The newcomer made such a move now, aiming a bow at Lauzoril’s flank and having the right angle to deliver it cleanly, unless Lauzoril shoved Ebroin to the left, which he didn’t.
The archer shouted, “He is a Red Wizard, my lady,” and pulled the bowstring. “He has held Ebroin since—since midnight.”
Lauzoril shouted back: “I am the Zulkir of Enchantment and you are alive only because I have no reason to slay you. Do not give me that reason.”
The archer wavered then brought the arrow back into line. Lauzoril judged the distance and chose an appropriate spell. Ebroin was shaking badly; he’d collapse without a hand to steady him.
“If he is yours, my lady,” the zulkir suggested to Aglarond’s queen. “Tell him to stand down.”
“Halaern, old friend—”
“When he releases Ebroin.”
Lauzoril met the blue eyes that had been the doom of hundreds—thousands—of Red Wizards over the last century. He gave Ebroin a shove forward. The young man took three steps, stumbling toward his queen, then got his balance and stopped.
“Ebroin,” the zulkir advised. “If I trust her, then you must also.”
But in a gathering of recklessly stubborn people, the young Cha’Tel’Quessir could hold his own. “All gods’ curse on you, Queen of Aglarond, again and again. You deceived me. You used me!”
Mythrell’aa had chosen the wrong messenger: If she’d sent Ebroin forward, the map of Faerûn would look much different today.
Thoughts passed between the Simbul and the archer, who at last lowered his bow. He called Ebroin by name and held out his hand. The youth looked at his queen; Lauzoril couldn’t see the silent expressions that passed between them. He looked at Lauzoril; the expression was respect, the best that could be shared by enemies, followed by the arched brows of inquiry.
“Go home, Ebroin,” the zulkir suggested, having no better or safer advice to give a stranger. “Go to the place where your heart is at rest and begin your life anew from there.” It was the advice he always gave himself and would give to Mimuay when the time came.
The youth lifted his shoulders, standing straighter and with a faint smile on his lips. Then he turned toward the archer. They walked away together, leaving Lauzoril alone with Thay’s greatest enemy. She walked toward him.
“Yours is not a face I ever expected to see in the Yuirwood. Why, Lauzoril? Why did you come? To destroy another zulkir? Why have you stayed. You are not Szass Tam, Lauzoril; you don’t have a hope against me.”
“Oh, I have hope, my lady.” He did not have a personal name to fling at her the way she flung his, but no one knew the Simbul’s name, not even her own people. “I hope Lady Illusion is quite thoroughly dead, but it is only hope. She isn’t foolish enough to leave herself with no way out.”
“If she was conscious when Lailomun reached her.”
“Ah, Lailomun. You knew him then?”
She appeared annoyed with herself. It was almost as good as a name.
“You came for Mythrell’aa?”
“No, I came for my daughter and for that hot-headed young man who has no idea how lucky he is to be alive.”
“Explain yourself.”
Lauzoril shook his head. “I don’t take orders from foreign queens, my lady. My daughter means everything to me. If you have children …” He watched her face grow hard in a heartbeat. “Well, never mind. I did it for her, to be a hero in her eyes before she grows up.”
“And learns her poppa is a zulkir?”
It was an insult, but it was also the truth. “Just so. Do you think we eat our young?”
“It had occurred to me more than once.”
The zulkir shook his head. He had learned the true name of the Cha’Tel’Quessir, but it wasn’t anywhere near enough, not for Aglarond or Thay. “Then it will never change.”
“The Red Wizards will give up their dreams of conquest and domination? No, I don’t think it will ever change, Lauzoril.”
“I believe that Thay is born to dominate Faerûn, but not a Faerûn drenched in blood. I don’t have any liking for war, my lady, and I’ve seen too much death.”
“You’re not yet fifty!”
She’d been fighting his kind for generations. Perhaps that gave her the right to belittle his observations. “I’ve seen enough for me.” He turned and started walking toward the bushes where he’d hidden the stone horse, making his back an easy target.
“Lauzoril!”
He paused, looked over his shoulder.
“Thank you. Thank you for saving Ebroin’s life. He has definitely seen too much death.”
“My daughter said his heart was sad because we had slain his mother. She thought he was frightened with no one to stand for him. She wanted to save him from the Red Wizards.”
“And you did.”
“She is my child.” Lauzoril saw Mimuay’s face in his mind’s eye and wondered if she would believe him when he returned to Thazalhar. He started walking again.
“Lauzoril!”
Again, he paused and looked back.
“Lauzoril, I owe you, and I pay my debts. What do you want?”
The witch-queen of Aglarond owing a zulkir! The map of Faerûn had changed overnight. He thought of a thousand requests and rejected them all in the space of a heartbeat. “A name. The name you give to your friends.”
She hesitated; he thought she’d refuse, which wasn’t a complete surprise. A name, if it could be kept hidden, was a powerful word for any wizard to possess.
“Nethreene.
”
“Nethreene,” Lauzoril repeated. That hot-silver presence he’d felt the night he’d spied upon her while she held the knife pressed against his mind. It is her true name, Shazzelurt insisted. The presence faded. He held out his hand—even in Thay, a handshake was a gesture of trust.
She strode forward and took it. They studied each other, eye to eye. Nethreene’s grip was as firm as any man’s, but the hand she raised unselfconsciously to touch his cheek was woman-gentle. He didn’t risk the same familiarity with her. She seemed disappointed when they stepped apart.
“Consider my name a gift, Lauzoril. Remember it when you look at your daughter. Say it aloud when you need to collect a debt.”
“Perhaps I will,” he replied with a smile. “Perhaps someday I will.”
The zulkir started walking again.
This time the Simbul did not call him back.
About the Author
Lynn Abbey is the co-creator of Thieves World, the first shared-world fantasy series. In addition to numerous non-Thieves World fantasy novels, she has also authored three books in the DARK SUN® series for TSR. She lives in Oklahoma.
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