by Jack Lovejoy
“Then we journey east to our new estates, to begin the long work of restoring them. I’ve already made special arrangement to transport your mirror there, and anything else you want to take with you.”
“You always were a considerate lad.” Mamre looked from one to the other. “So my boy is getting married, and soon the All-Mother bless them—will have boys of his own, and gals too.” She again took out her handkerchief, but this time there were real tears in her eyes. “It seems like only yesterday that you were prattling around the kitchen with your toy dragon, and plaguing the cooks with your childish questions, and helping yourself to cakes when they wasn’t looking. How the dancing she-mrem made a pet of you, and when you were older—”
“Oh, uh, here’s an old friend of yours.” Branwe was glad of the interruption. “I met him in the streets only the day before yesterday, and invited him here this morning.”
“And I’ve invited him here myself as often as he has whiskers.” Mamre was as usual half amused, half exasperated by old Hoobel, the schoolmaster. “But he’s never once stopped by for the drink on the house I’ve offered him again and again, never mind what my late husband would have thought about it. And after all the adventures we had together on the road from Kazerclawm too. Hello, Hoobel. Who’s this with you?”
“Hello, Mamre,” said the old schoolmaster, glancing uncertainly around him at the rascally clientele. “This is my new assistant. My school here has flourished. In fact, I have so many pupils now that I couldn’t possibly do all the teaching myself any more. I believe some of you already know him. His name—is Nizzam.”
Branwe and Srana certainly knew him; they also knew that The Three had not only expelled him from their order, but forbidden his ever dabbling in magic again. But both were too naturally gracious to chide the poor abject wretch for his past misconduct, and greeted him courteously. Besides, he looked so flustered by his classroom duties that there was a wild stare in his eye, as if he had begun to wonder if even service to an evil sorcerer were not preferable to trying without much success, it appeared to keep mrem schoolkits in order. He nodded, but did not raise his eyes from the floor.
The fate of the Evil One was still unknown, but this was too joyous an occasion to dampen with further apprehensions of what had become of him. The talk was open and friendly, although Nizzam could hardly bring himself to look anybody in the eye. Mamre was again tickled by Hoobel’s naive unworldliness, and could not resist teasing him. She also hinted slyly about the need for a private tutor to the children of a certain noble family, in the not-too-distant future.
Master Hoobel smiled benignantly at her good-natured raillery, but could not spare any more time between classes; nor was he comfortable with his surroundings, either at finding himself among so many grisly rogues or at the gruesome spectacle unfolding behind the bar.
The wretched Nizzam still kept his eyes on the ground as he departed behind his new master; but now he had a hunted look, verging on desperation, at the thought of facing his afternoon class.
“Moved in, just like home.” Kizzlecosh at last laid the hammer, which she had been wielding all this time, down on the bar. Cajhet had already installed himself as bartender. “Always wanted a place of my own,” she said. “It’s like a dream come true for me, I see you folks are dressed for the wedding this morning,”
Branwe smiled. “I understand you’ve just celebrated a wedding of your own. My congratulations.”
“Thanks, and the same to you both, Yes, now that we have our own tavern, I thought it best to be married. Property owners should be respectable folk. Without going too far about it, of course. So me and Cajhet here decided to do the proper thing,”
The weak grin on Cajhet’s face suggested who had really done the deciding. He nodded in agreement of everything his wife said, a custom he prudently continued throughout the rest of their married life.
“Then there was no trouble about getting an early discharge from the army?” Branwe turned to Cajhet, but it was Kizzlecosh who again spoke.
“Went right to old Severakh myself, and asked him pointblank. No trouble at all. Wrote up the discharge certificate right on the spot, with his own hands, and I thanked him for the favor. ‘Madame,’ he says, ‘any time I can do you a favor like this, please don’t hesitate to come to me day or night, no matter what the hour. I’m always looking for ways to improve the quality of the service.’”
“It’s all on account of the fluffy pink dressing gown,” said Cajhet. “I hear he’s going on an inspection tour soon, beginning at Namakhazar. Who knows what he’ll end up wearing this time?” He chuckled pawkily to himself, but did not explain.
•
Whatever costumes he might don later, Severakh was in fact dressed this morning in the splendid regalia of a Grand Marshal of Ar, whose army he had already begun reforming, to ensure that the Eastern Lords never again found so flagrant an opportunity to invade the land.
Captain by captain, soldier by soldier, he inspected for the second time already this morning the honor guard he had posted in and around the Temple of the All-Mother. Candles blazed, flags and banners draped colorfully from every wall, and icons and idols of burnished copper scintillated with light. The resplendent battle dress of the kings of the League of Ar, the raiment of the great nobles of the land, the silken finery of their consorts, and the trappings of the priests vied in magnificence.
The Three, less disheveled than wizards generally were, were just now filing down the center aisle to their assigned pews.
“Everything is in order, my lady,” Severakh reported to Sruss. “My lord, my lady.” He also greeted Branwe and Srana, who had meanwhile joined Sruss in the place of honor, directly below the glittering altar.
Moments later they were also joined by Mithmid, who glanced back in exasperation at The Three, now comfortably ensconced in their own places of honor below the first balcony, where the temple musicians had just begun to tune their instruments.
“Silly old biddies,” he muttered. “Exhaustion from their recent ordeal I could understand, but some of them act as if they were senile. Dollavier’s the only one who seems to have kept his wits, and he left Ar the day before yesterday, to ensure that Rhenowla is both comfortable and carefully watched in her place of exile. The rest do nothing but whimper and complain. I truly believe that the savagery of the Yozgat she-mrem was more of a shock to them than the siege itself. Not even the flood washed it away. I had to reassure them for about the ninth time, I believe—that all the Yozgat have gone home, that not one of them would be here today, before I could get them to come.”
“With no treaty of alliance, and not even the courtesy to attend the wedding of the King of Ar,” added Severakh, shaking his head. “All I could get out of Changavar was that such things were alien to their most sacred traditions. You saw how, after the flood receded, they camped outside the city? Well, he said the Yozgat were warriors, and that signing treaties was as contemptible for them as cringing behind walls. By the way, now that I think of it, he and some of his captains were also disgruntled about the behavior of their females. What happened?” he asked Mithmid.
“You mean why were the Yozgat males disgruntled? I can only guess it’s because of the beastly trophies of honor. That ride back here, after the flood, was the most harrowing experience of my life. Not only did we have to watch the little horrors flay the enemies they had slain, but had to sit on the very pelts all the way back, while the she-mrem twirled fur cloaks—sewn from the pelts of other enemies, in case you didn’t know—raked the air with their steel claws, and hallooed like demons. They took it as a double victory. That is, those excluded from battle ended up with the only trophies. The Yozgat males didn’t get any because of the flood. Appalling, really appalling. They danced half the night, before it was finally settled about who got which trophy.”
Severakh smiled grimly. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the she-mrem rubbed it
in a bit?”
“Yes, and more than just a bit,” said Mithmid. “Some of the old fools over there wouldn’t take my word for it that they were gone. They actually sent messengers up to the ramparts for confirmation. The All-Mother save us if we ever have to rely on them again.”
He no longer wore the golden bracelet, nor had Srana possession any longer of either her scepter or the Third Eye. The magic was from an evil dimension, but so far no remains of Khal or his dragon had been recovered from the grisly jetsam strewn across the plains by the receding flood. Neither were the eggs nor the hatchlings Nizzam had reported seeing in the dungeons of Cragsclaw found there when the great fortress was retaken. And so long as their fate remained unknown, No power of magic dared be renounced.
All the fragments of the Khavala, large and small, had been entrusted to Sruss, who had had them sealed within a secret repository somewhere beneath the Temple of the All-Mother. Not unless some new challenge threatened the very survival of the mrem would they ever again see the light of day, and then only under the auspices of the reigning king of Ar. Magic was too important to be left to the magicians.
The magical attractiveness of Rhenowla had been the bane of Ar, and very nearly its undoing. Her lust for power had not blenched even at assassination. The confessions wrung from the three rogues she had employed had proven her own undoing. There was some cynical speculation about whether more people today were celebrating the king’s wedding—or his mother’s banishment.
Sruss was not sure herself, although she had played the leading role in both events. Her prestige and moral authority were now transcendent in the land; never had the White Dancers been so honored. But if Sruss was still determined not to interfere in the everyday administration of the kingdom, she had been more forthright this time in counseling the young king on the choice of a bride.
The daughter of King Ortakh may have lacked Rhenowla’s magical attractiveness, but she was a sensible girl with claws, qualities more needed at this time in a queen of Ar than ravishing beauty. Tristwyn had a good heart, but had been so corrupted and demoralized by the ambitions of his mother that he needed a strong consort to guide him. Ortakh’s daughter would make short work of any crockercup who tried to insinuate himself back into the palace.
She would also tend to bridge the tragic disunity of the mrem, to ally at least spiritually the highland kingdoms and the city-states of the plain.
The White Dancers would continue to foster a common history and justice among all mrem, with more telling effect now than ever. The worship of the All-Mother grew daily in influence, reaching ever deeper into those backward regions which had long been the strongholds of bigotry and dissentient priesthoods. Not that the mrem would ever be anything but fiercely independent, nor should they be; it was the very essence of their nature. But the Eastern Lords would be watching for any new opportunity to avenge their recent humiliation. If the mrem could never agree among themselves, they must at least learn not to allow old feuds and enmities to be exploited against them by a common enemy.
The White Dancers had now taken their places before the icon of the All-Mother; the musicians had at last ceased to tune their instruments; the kings of the League of Ar, each in his traditional battle regalia, including Ortakh himself, formed the escort which would lead the nuptial pair up the grand aisle. The ceremony would begin any moment now.
“You have no doubts or regrets?” Sruss confided to Srana, at her side.
“Doubts perhaps—we all have those—regrets, never,” she replied. “Not so long as I live. Our heritage has been despoiled, but we have our whole lives in which to rebuild it, to teach our children a love of justice. Who could regret such a choice?”
Sruss nodded with the wisdom of a long lifetime. Who indeed? As she looked at the beautiful she-mrem beside her, radiant with love and youth and happiness, she recalled nostalgically the choice she herself had made at the same age. The only regret she had over her life with her beloved Talwe was that it had been too brief. But, then, wasn’t life itself too brief?
The traditional march music started up. The White Dancers began their graceful ceremonial dance, and the kings of the League of Ar marched solemnly up the grand aisle. All eyes turned toward the bride and groom, charming in their nuptial finery, as they followed beneath the gold-and-scarlet canopy, held for them by the sons and daughters of noble houses.
Despite her age and wisdom, Sruss felt tears welling in her eyes. Were the priests right about lives being reincarnated after all? It seemed to her now that the old stories were retold again and again, that the same wars were lost and won, that the ancient struggle against evil was waged each generation on new battlefields, Once more goodness had prevailed but for how long?
She glanced from the young bride and groom beneath the canopy to the young bride and groom beside her. The heroic exploits of Srana and Branwe were now being celebrated throughout the land, and a renowned poet had been commissioned to record them in the Dragon Book, so they might never be forgotten.
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