EXILED Wizard of Tizare

by Matthew J. Costello

  And I’ll do what I must to save him.

  •

  Falon found Taline on top of a smooth boulder that rose above the grassy plain. It was bright out now, the twin moons just above the horizon, casting their yellowish glow on her.

  “It’s beautiful out here,” he said, startling her.

  She turned, her hand paused at her face, smoothing her, fur there, thinking....

  “Yes,” she said flatly.

  “Do you mind some company?” he said, strolling over to her boulder.

  “Suit yourself.”

  Not exactly an invitation, he recognized. Still, she hadn’t exactly told him to leave.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, “that you don’t want me helping. Your father must think he needs help—”

  “My father doesn’t have faith in me.” She turned, her eyes glowing. “Not that he trusts you ... a stranger ... a highlander. But it was Plano’s idea, and my father went along with it.”

  Falon risked sitting down on a corner of the boulder.

  “And why isn’t Plano in the city to help the lord?”

  She turned away. “There was a problem. Plano ... disagreed with some of my father’s proposals in the Tizarian Senate. Rather than stay and oppose my father, Plano accepted his retirement.”

  “Sounds like he’s been exiled.”

  “What would you know of such things? He is a loyal and trusted counselor to the family.”

  “And how did you get to be your father’s right-hand mrem?”

  She stood up and jumped off the boulder. “Because I’m his new counselor. His personal army takes its orders from me, second only to my father.”

  She started to walk away.

  He couldn’t help but admire the way she looked sauntering away under the bright light of the twin moons.

  “And do you ever disagree with your father?”

  She stopped, turned, and looked.

  “Never,” she hissed. She spun, and then kept walking away.

  •

  True to her word, Taline had the party moving while it was still dark, a misty cool morning.

  The low scrubby grass grew more lush as they reached the Arrian River basin. And it grew hot, a moist, prickly heat that had them all stripped down to the smallest of kilts. Even Ashre seemed enervated by the glaring sunlight.

  The land they moved through, though, was beautiful. The lush parra trees were unlike anything that Falon had ever seen in the mountains of his homeland. The leaves were immense, rendering the nearby woods a dark, almost sinister shadowy green.

  But they stayed on the overgrown trail, the uxan struggling to move the cart through the tall grass which wrapped around the wheels. It snorted and a huge ball of foam gathered at its mouth.

  Anarra saw that it was constantly supplied with water, and soaked its back.

  “I hope she’s not so free with water when we hit the desert.”

  “She knows what she’s doing.” Taline said.

  The stop for lunch was barely a stop at all. Taline dug out some stale, crusty bread to be eaten with sliced cheese that was a poor substitute for the stouter stuff Falon used to make for himself. After a few gulps of water, Taline gave the order to start moving.

  Falon looked at Caissir.

  Besides his continual lingering at the back, he gave no indication that he was about to leave. Ashre was with the wizard. The kit enjoyed listening to him carryon about this great city, or that great king, or the wonders of the southern seas.

  Then Ashre trotted up to Falon. “What’s wrong, Ash?”

  Ashre shrugged. “Caissir said talking to me was tiring him out. Sent me up to be with you.”

  It’s now, Falon thought. He must have made a small pack for himself, secreted somewhere inside the folds of his kilt.

  They came to a bend in the road.

  “I have to—er, you know ... relieve myself,” Caissir called out. Ashre giggled.

  Taline, at the lead of the party, right beside the uxan, turned and yelled, “Should we stop and wait?”

  “Oh, no,” Caissir yelled back. “I’ll attend to my affairs and catch up. No problem ... you just go on ahead.”

  Ashre grabbed Falon’s wrist, and looked up at him. His eyes registered alarm, concern....

  Falon shook his head.

  “Don’t worry, Ash.” He winked. “He’ll be fine.” Falon leaned close to the kit. “He just won’t be with us,” he whispered. “That’s all.”

  The kit looked sad, and Falon gave him his best cheer-up smile. “Everything will be fine.”

  They reached a small hill, no challenge for the uxan or even their tired bodies.

  Taline brought the cart to a halt.

  “Where’s your friend ... where’s this Caissir?”

  Falon looked behind them. The grassy trail stretched to the horizon, and there was no one following.

  “He’s probably run off, the scared old fool,” Anarra grumbled.

  Taline, her eyes afire, ran up to Falon. “Is that true? Has he left?”

  “Probably.”

  “Probably? Probably? Tell me what you know.”

  Falon stroked his whiskers, enjoying Taline’s consternation. “I know he didn’t want to go into the desert and explore some ruins for your Lord Rhow.”

  “Dishonorable renegade!” Anarra said. “Should I go get him back?”

  “No,” Taline said. “It would take too long, too much time.” She looked right at Falon. “You knew about this, didn’t you?”

  But Falon just shrugged, as if he didn’t know what she was talking about.

  He walked up to Anarra, who started the uxan up the small hill.

  He could feel Taline’s eyes boring into the back of his head.

  •

  They reached the edge of the desert near sunset. And they found a farmhouse.

  It was a small, ramshackle building with a grassy thatched roof and two small windows. Surrounding it was a wide field filled with dark strands of the grass used to make the brown bread found everywhere in the region. There was a small shed at the back, holding perhaps an animal or, two, and a small enclosed garden where Falon was sure he’d find a few rows of vegetables.

  This all was watered by the small stream that snaked its way past the farm.

  And, just as obviously, it was about as close to the end of the world as one could hope for.

  The farmer, standing stock-still in the center of his field, had seen them long before they noticed him.

  “What do you think?” Falon said to Taline.

  He saw her look beyond the farm, to the beginning hummocks of sand, the great Eastern desert.

  “I didn’t expect to find a farm here ... or anyone....”

  There was a narrow bridge that crossed the stream and it led to the farm.

  And still, the farmer didn’t move, leaning against his hoe, ready to work until all the light was gone.

  Ashre was on the ground, ready to fall asleep wherever he dropped.

  “Maybe we should greet the farmer, perhaps spend the night.”

  Taline looked over to Anarra. She was sponging the back of the uxan, using their water liberally. “It wouldn’t hurt to talk,” she said.

  “And it wouldn’t hurt to rest,” Ashre added.

  “We’ll go,” Taline said. “But say nothing about what we are doing.”

  “That,” Falon said, “should be interesting. He’ll ask what we’re doing, and we’ll say what? Just taking a walk. C’mon Ash,” he said, scooping him up from the ground, “I’ll carry you the rest of the way.”

  The kit was almost asleep. Even while being jiggled around, as Falon walked down the hill, Ashre’s breathing grew slow, rhythmic, accompanied by the faint stirring of a relaxed rumble from deep inside.

  Falon
questioned, then, the wisdom of bringing him along. Would the kit have been better left off at the city? Could the workhouses have been so bad?

  It may have been too hasty a decision.

  Too hasty ... like other decisions. Too hasty ... like drawing a sword and striking, without thinking.

  Falon moved over the narrow bridge, the farmer still not moving, or waving.

  So far, he didn’t seem like the friendly type.

  “Stay here,” Taline said to Anarra as they reached the fields. “You’ll come with me?” she asked Falon.

  “Certainly.” He placed Ashre atop the cart.

  They walked through the tall grass, nearly ready to be harvested. The farmer stirred, no more than a subtle movement of his feet, as if growing more uncomfortable the closer they got.

  “Hello,” Taline finally called.

  The farmer nodded. Was he a mute? Falon wondered.

  “We’ve been traveling all day,” Falon said, by way of explanation.

  “And where might you be going?” the farmer said. His voice was low, a rough and scratchy-sounding thing.

  Falon gestured at the desert. “Out there. Tomorrow,”

  “We were hoping that we might rest with you tonight. We can pay.”

  The farmer looked beyond them, out to the edge of the field, to Anarra standing with Ashre and Daynia.

  His eyes narrowed.

  “This isn’t an inn. My wife has two kits, still suckling.”

  “Perhaps we should just move along—” Falon argued, turning toward Taline. But she shook her head. “Our animal could use some fresh grass to graze on, and we have a young one with us as well. It will only be for one night.”

  Falon sighed. He studied the farmer.

  Then he saw it.

  The hand that held the hoe, closed so tight around it. Gripping it as though his life depended on it, tight enough for the claws to peak out and dig into the rough wood.

  But there were no claws. No claws, because he didn’t have any.

  And there was only one type of mrem that went about without claws.

  Convicted murderers. It was the ultimate disgrace. “Taline,” he said, trying not to rush, “I think—”

  The farmer smiled, a half-sad grimace. “Very well, you may stay, and eat, and refresh your animal. As long as you leave tomorrow morning.”

  He returned to cutting down the fresh blades of grass. “What was it you were going to say?” Taline asked.

  The farmer looked up.

  “Oh, nothing,” Falon said. There would be time later to point out his unfortunate news to Taline.

  At least, he hoped there would be.

  THERE WERE a couple of things Falon didn’t like about their shelter for that night.

  It had nothing to do with the hut itself, though it was as sparsely furnished an abode as he had ever seen. Whatever this farming couple had, they had built with their own hands. The chairs were simple wood slat things, strong, sturdy, designed for plenty of rough use. The table, the centerpiece of the small three-room cottage, was twin slabs of dark changa wood, polished to a high sheen from daily use and the oil of simple meals.

  A kitchen, two small bedrooms, and that was it.

  But the smell from the kitchen was more than pleasant. It was a stew filled with all the farm’s own vegetables and another musky flavor. The few furs inside the cottage told Falon that the farmer also knew how to shoot an arrow or set a trap.

  And so far, the farmer—a murderer, if that’s what he was—hadn’t given any sign of malicious intent. He just restocked the fire, lit a pipe, and settled quietly into what must be his place: a chair at the head of the table.

  Whoever he was, this mrem was not yet old, but he moved slowly, as if tired of his life. His eyes glowed almost too brightly, not about to miss a trick.

  His mate was heavy with the teats that a twin birth brings. Their two kits were frolicking on the dirt floor, rolling over each other and mewling for milk at what seemed the most inopportune time. The farmer introduced his wife as Lonirr, and she nodded shyly before bustling about the small kitchen area.

  The farmer didn’t introduce himself at all.

  His markings seemed to be a mix of dark swirls of color, the fur rough and unkempt, mixed with the rich dirt from his fields. He said little, unconcerned with the niceties of playing host.

  But none of that bothered Falon. At least, not much.

  Not as much as seeing Taline’s reaction.

  It was as if she had been bottling up her normal feelings. All of a sudden she seemed like any other female Falon had ever known. Despite the presence of the farmer’s wife, Taline was sending out signals, and more, that Falon could read loud and strong.

  The farmer chose to ignore her. Her looks, the lowering of the eyes, the slight arch to her sleek, smooth back when she leaned down to loosen her boots.

  The farmer’s eyes moved not a bit.

  Falon, on the other hand, at once felt amazed by Taline’s sudden aggressive display—amazed, and annoyed that it wasn’t on him that she was dispensing all this wonderful attention.

  It excited him tremendously.

  And still, despite the swirl of thoughts and fear that swept around him, there was something else.

  He missed Caissir, though he wasn’t sure why. Caissir wouldn’t be much in a fight, and his constant complaining could be incredibly grating. But after years with the beasts on Mount Zaynir, he had found Caissir wonderfully refreshing.

  Lonirr brought a great tureen of the soup to the table.

  Without a word, she sat down near her husband and, with a nod to Falon, Anarra, Ashre, and Taline, invited their guests to join them.

  Falon had no problem squelching his concerns when the very full bowl of soup was placed under his nostrils.

  After everyone had their first hearty spoonfuls, the farmer finally gave his name: Sirrom. Then, he asked a question. “Where are you headed?” he said, in a tired, scratchy voice.

  Falon glanced at Taline, trying to indicate that she should watch her words. But she was too fast for him.

  “We are going to the ruins at Gfaar,” she said.

  Falon looked over at Anarra, trying to rouse some help in his campaign to silence Taline. But she was up to her whiskers in soup.

  The farmer laughed, an unpleasant, cruel sound. And Falon kept trying not to stare at his hands, to not let him see that he knew.

  “I hope you enjoy being eaten,” he said, punctuating his comment with a loud slurp of the soup.

  This made even Anarra pause in her dining. Ashre held his spoon in front of him, eyes wide open.

  “What do you mean?” Taline asked.

  Another long slurp. He was enjoying himself, the bastard son of some street bitch....

  “What do you know about the liskash?”

  “What? The liskash? Rumors, old tales ... you can’t know anything about what you don’t see.”

  “I don’t think—” Lonirr started to say, but the farmer fired her a look that could have melted stone. He looked at Taline, then Anarra, finally right at Falon.

  “The liskash grow more bold. They grow stronger. Some renegades ... and some criminals work with them. I am safe—for the moment. But if you go out there, there’s no telling what you’ll find.” He laughed again. “Though it’s doubtful that you’ll find Gfaar.”

  “And why is that?” Falon asked.

  “How many years old is it? And buried under so much sand. It storms constantly there .... I know, I’ve seen it. No, you’ll not find it.”

  He picked up his soup bowl and drank from it as if from a goblet.

  Then Ashre did the same. He saw the kit look at the great, burly farmer. And Falon wondered what Ashre could see behind the farmer’s smoky black eyes.

  Taline leaned across the table and t
ouched Sirrom’s arm. “But you could find it for us, couldn’t you? You would be well rewarded.”

  What kind of reward, Falon wondered, forgetting for a moment that Taline had just invited a murderer to join them.

  “I have my harvest ... my wife ... my kits. ...” The two kits rolled around his feet, scratching with their soft baby claws at his tough boots. Sirrom let a hand dangle and he wriggled his fingers, causing the kits to leap ferociously on him. “I cannot go.”

  A good decision, Falon thought.

  “No,” Taline said coldly, regaining some of her former demeanor. “There’s more involved here than a trip to the ruins. The future of the cities—”

  Sirrom laughed.

  ‘There’s a book,” she said, “and it must be found.”

  “For the cities?” Sirrom asked.

  “Yes, the cities,” she continued. “Without you we may not succeed as easily, but we will succeed. But if you help us, I can help you.”

  She took Sirrom’s hands in her own.

  She looked right at his hands, at the tips ... where the claws should have been.

  And Falon knew the strange truth.

  She knew he was a murderer. A disgraced outcast. Possibly dangerous. And it didn’t bother her in the slightest.

  “You won’t have to live here ... on the edge of world, away from—”

  “We like it here,” he said.

  But Taline said nothing, letting the hollowness of his claim fill the smoky air of the cottage.

  Sirrom stood up and went over to the fire. He poked at it, teasing it, sending sparks onto the floor. He gently nudged his kits away from the spit of sparks and glowing embers.

  “It is growing dangerous here.”

  It was his wife, talking to him now, standing at his elbow, her hands nervously fidgeting with her scratchy quilt. They were the only words that she had spoken, and they made him turn to her, and finally look down at his kits.

  “If it grows more dangerous,” Taline said slowly, “how long can you stay here?”