EXILED Wizard of Tizare

by Matthew J. Costello

  The mountain of sand leveled out, and now they entered the enormous sandy plain that ran back to the edge of the woods, and Sirrom’s farm.

  “And what of you?” Falon dared ask.

  He felt Sirrom clench his muscles, as if bracing himself. “Better to be quiet now, Falon. Enough talking.”

  But Falon pressed on. He was feeling trust and respect for Sirrom. Being a murderer didn’t fit.

  “No,” Falon said, “Why do you live out in the wasteland, what happened to you? If there’s anything I know, it’s that you’re not a murderer.”

  Sirrom grinned. “Oh, you saw that, did you? Well, perhaps you’ll tell the King of Ar. Perhaps you can win me back my claws, my life....” He spit into the sand.

  “I just meant—” Falon stammered.

  They seemed to be walking more quickly now, trying to keep up with Taline.

  “Fact is, Falon, I am a murderer. You’re wrong.”

  “But how?”

  “I was King Talwe’s personal counselor, Paralan.” Paralan! Falon took a step back. Paralan had murdered an ambassador ... and been banished. It had signaled the beginning of King Talwe’s decline.

  “I murdered the ambassador,” Paralan snorted, “who was actually a powerful magic user working for the Eastern Lords. Of course, I had no evidence ... just my own dumb instinct....”

  Or perhaps, Falon wondered, beast magic. “I’m surprised you weren’t killed.”

  “Oh,” he laughed again, “I would have been—rather quickly too. Talwe never forgot our battles together. But he never forgave my act. He decreed banishment. My life was spared, but I was disgraced, declawed, and sent away, forbidden to enter any city again.”

  “Until now.”

  “Heh?”

  “Part of this deal,” Falon said, grinning despite the pain. “You’ll be a hero in Tizare.”

  “Perhaps ...” Paralan said. “I admit that I have not been disinterested in the affairs of the city states, or Talwe. I listened to every story passed on by every merchant, cherishing each bit of news as if it were a treasure. Even here, in this wilderness, I would become angered upon hearing of some suspected treachery against one of the kings, or their own foolishness ...”

  As Falon listened to Paralan, he heard the voice of the former king’s minister appear, as if the simple farmer was transforming before his very eyes.

  “And I have especially cherished the news of Ar, even when I suspected that it might be simply rumors.”

  “Good news?”

  “Good news? That remains to be seen. Last week an old caravan-master stopped. And he proposed a toast. He said that the breach between old Talwe and his beloved Sruss is to come to an end. Within two moons she is to be brought out of exile, returning to rule at Talwe’s side.”

  “Then that is good news. Perhaps you may be restored to the great city state, freed from your own banishment.”

  “Perhaps. And perhaps not. Living here, I have learned two things. Time moves too slowly or too fast, never what you need or desire. It is the real ruler of our lives. And I’ve learned not to depend on anything ... or anyone, except myself.” .

  Falon nodded.

  The sun was in his eyes, hot, blistering, and only the hope of resting when they reached the farmhouse kept him moving at all.

  The journey was almost over, the first trees had appeared at the horizon, and every step brought dreams of a warm supper and cool well water that much closer.

  They were together now, Ashre and Taline side by side with them. But nobody talked—it took too much effort. The only sound was the swishing of their feet digging into the sand, step after step, one after the other, closer and closer until Falon thought he could almost smell the wonderful aroma of roast uxan and fresh gradle berries, with cups of wine filled to the very top.

  They all hurried now, Falon moving quickly, urging Paralan on. Soon he could rest, close his eyes, and pray never to see a grain of sand again.

  Then Ashre pulled back, as if not wanting to go on. “Come on, Ash,” Falon said, hobbling forward. “We’re almost there.”

  “Yes, and my Lonirr will have something wonderful for us to eat.”

  But it did no good, and Ashre started whimpering, crying ....

  “What is it?” Taline said, crouching down close to him.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I ... I don’t want to see it.”

  “Eh, see what?” Paralan said. And he looked up, his great proud head staring into the distance. “What are you afraid of—”

  Paralan froze, and let go of Falon at the same instant.

  “What is it?” Falon said. “What’s—”

  It was a, whisper. Icy, chilling all of them, even in the late afternoon light.

  “Lonirr ... the kits ...”

  Paralan stumbled forward, slowly at first, then running full out. His hands grabbed at the air, pulling at it.

  “Ash,” Falon said quietly. “What is wrong? Tell us.”

  But Ashre just stood there, whimpering, repeating, “No.”

  There was the farmhouse just ahead. A place they had dreamt about all day.

  There it was.

  The heat made hazy waves rise from the fields.

  The farmhouse. And tiny plumes of smoke streamed up from it, almost invisible.

  “Oh, by the All-Mother. No!” Falon screamed. “No …”

  And he ran as fast as he could, ignoring the pain. “What is it?” Taline screamed, but Falon didn’t turn around.

  Ashre would tell her. When the horrible pictures faded. The tiny plumes rose almost straight up to the darkening sky. The house, though, still appeared normal in all respects—save one.

  It was clearly black ... a dark, smoldering hulk. Falon imagined Paralan’s horror, the immense feelings . that must be rushing through him, touching his every nerve, filling his mind with picture after horrible picture.

  He had to hurry. He didn’t want him to get there—stand there—all alone.

  He slipped in the sand, already starting to cool now that the intense light of day was gone. He struggled up.

  Paralan had stopped running. He stood there, next to the hulk.

  And the most terrible sound reached Falon’s ears ... the sound of Paralan screaming, wailing up at the darkening sky.

  As Falon kept on hobbling forward....

  PARALAN WAS already walking inside the smoldering ruins by the time Falon got there. The smell of burnt wood, grass ... and something else made his nostrils twitch.

  “Paralan ...” Falon said gently, reaching out and touching the blackened walls. The dense parra wood felt puffy and porous.

  He looked over his shoulder, wishing that Taline and Ash would hurry up and get there.

  What do I say, he wondered? What can I do to help him?

  The wild moaning had stopped, replaced by the steady crunch as Paralan strode through his small farmhouse ... looking ... searching.

  Please, Falon thought. Don’t let him find anything. Let the house be empty, deserted.

  Suddenly it was quiet inside. A gentle wind whistled eerily through the open house.

  Falon went to the doorway and stepped in.

  It was still warm inside. Not so hot that he couldn’t walk, but uncomfortable. Everything seemed normal inside, the rough wooden table, the chairs, the fireplace.

  Except that it was all black.

  Paralan was kneeling by the corner. It was dark in here now. He could barely make Paralan out, just kneeling there. He took another awkward step closer.

  “Paralan ...”

  But Paralan made no sound—nothing.

  Another step, and Falon stood just behind him, looking over his shoulder, looking down, at the bodies.

  Lonirr was curled on the floor, her two kits held tightly on either side.
<
br />   So peaceful they could have been sleeping.

  Falon tried to say something.

  His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

  The bodies! So black it made him want to scrub them, clean off the soot.

  Paralan stood up slowly, and turned. His face seemed locked into position as he stared through, and past Falon.

  “Paralan ...” he said again, almost a whisper.

  Paralan turned, and walked out of the burnt farmhouse, out to the yard. Then he knelt in the yard and he started digging in the dirt, using first his sword, then his hands, clawing at the dirt.

  And now Falon heard his cry, terrible, an almost baby-like sound as this giant mrem knelt on the ground and dug at the dirt. Then Falon came beside him, knelt down, and also started digging at the dirt, sharing the grief of his friend in the ancient way of their race.

  Each handful of dirt, much more difficult for Sirrom, made the hole grow slowly, as if it were alive. Taline and Ashre arrived, and without a word, they joined in.

  Falon looked over at Ashre. He sniffled, his beautiful smoky eyes all watery, but kept pace with the others.

  Finally, Paralan spoke.

  “I will find who did this. Find them ... and kill them. And I’ll kill any who help them, or have anything to do with them. I—”

  His voice broke, and he collapsed into the dirt.

  Taline touched his arm, rubbed his fur, and spoke sweet, gentle words of comfort. Over and over.

  “It was a band from the East ... like the other ...” Ashre blurted out. Falon shot him a quick warning glance to be quiet. But Paralan rose up quickly.

  “Where are they now?”

  “I don’t know ... but they are moving west ... not east.” .

  “West,” Paralan said. “Towards Tizare. Then that’s where I will go.”

  He stood up, and went back inside his farmhouse.

  And when he came out, he had two small bodies cradled in his arms.

  •

  They camped a short hike away from the farmhouse, just far away enough so that the stench of the wood didn’t reach them. And they rose early that next morning, eager to be off to Tizare.

  The road to Tizare is one filled with rolling hills and fertile valleys that make travel an eye-filling, if tiring, experience. But they had their own reasons for simply wanting to get to the city as quickly as possible. Despite beautiful weather, with a clear blue sky that painted the woods and grass in dark, bright colors, they marched, heads down, hurrying to the smoke and din of the city.

  Falon hadn’t given much thought to the rest of his life once he returned to Tizare. Would he find some secure position with the noble Lord Rhow’s house, or would he be faced with a vagrant’s life in the great city?

  Time would tell.

  If that was the case, he would, no doubt, prefer to return to his mountains. The air was fresh there, and the duties demanding enough to keep his mind off other matters.

  But whatever happened, Falon felt that they were all changed, each of them in a different way.

  Paralan had become their leader, and then lost everything he cared about. Taline seemed more confused and insecure the closer they came to Tizare.

  Ashre said little, awaiting his next flash of unwanted knowledge.

  And Falon realized why that was happening to Ashre so frequently now. Before he was alone, but now he was part of a group. All those connections brought unwanted images ... unwanted fears.

  As for himself, he felt his untroubled state of mind had been replaced with questions that wouldn’t vanish. Why did Anarra try to kill him, for it surely had to have been she. And why was she helping the Eastern Lords? Why was this book so important?

  And why, he smiled to himself, had Plano asked him in the first place?

  And here his fur flared out ... there was more to that than he was told, he was sure of it.

  He thought of these things, his wound gradually responding to the herbs gingerly applied by Taline. With Paralan so preoccupied, she seemed to be showing more concern for, if not interest in, Falon.

  Despite everything, he knew that he was definitely interested in her ... excited by her.

  By the late afternoon, they started to run into small groups leaving Tizare. Most were hearty merchant bands, well armed, and about to make the relatively safe journey to Ar or one of the other cities. Others were headed for the distant ports to the south, perhaps to try their luck on the open seas, a prospect which made Falon shudder. He recalled all too vividly the time Caissir and he had tried to cross the stream.

  That was more water than he ever wanted to see. Most of the travelers hurried past them, eager to be on their way. Falon would have liked to tell them about invaders from the East ... give them a friendly warning.

  But their scowls and the ready hands on their swords persuaded him to mind his own business.

  And that was another change. Up till now, Paralan had been their leader. That was no longer true, and Taline, without the barrel-chested Anarra by her side, didn’t seem interested in the role. She pulled the sleepy-eyed Daynia along, the uxan sensing that—with Anarra gone— Taline was her new mistress.

  That left Falon, who had called for the rest stops and selected the site for their midday meal of berries and dried uxan.

  Now that they were almost at the city gates he waited for Taline to take charge. But outside of tending to his wounds and talking quietly with Ashre (and glad he was of that), she seemed disinterested in their quest.

  The book, Falon thought ... I want to look at it. Before Rhow sees it. To see what makes it so valuable.

  Somehow, before they reached the noble’s palace, he’d take a look ... hoping that his simple village-school lessons would serve him well enough.

  And he was lost to these thoughts when they passed a small group of White Dancers.

  Who hid a surprise.

  At first, Falon simply saw the Dancers, resting by the side of the road, passing around a large gourd of water.

  With their brilliant white fur they could hardly be overlooked. But then he saw a mrem, well off the trail, lying down like a female about to give birth to a dozen kits—and he grinned at that moment—

  Caissir!

  “Caissir! Caissir,” he called, still way down the trail. Caissir scrambled up to a sitting position quickly, his eyes wide with the guilty look of someone about to be arrested and thrown into the dungeon.

  The White Dancers turned, smoothly, graceful even in their alarm.

  The Dancers regarded Falon’s approach cautiously.

  I must look more than a bit bedraggled, he thought. My fur is matted with blood, there are bandages hanging off my body, and I must have the wild-eyed look of someone back from the dead.

  But Caissir was already grinning, walking over, his arms extended. The Dancers, with a subtle, sleek movement, relaxed.

  “Falon! I thought I’d never see you again!”

  “There were moments when I shared that thought, Caissir.”

  “Here,” Caissir said, running over to one of the Dancers and rudely snapping the drinking gourd away, “have a drink. You look,” he smiled, “a bit dry around the whiskers.”

  Falon drank, and nodded. “That’s for sure,” he said. Taline, Paralan, and Ashre came up to them.

  “I see you still have your merry companions with you. Where’s that monster and her uxan? What was her name?”

  Falon brought a finger up to his lips, shushing Caissir. “Anarra. She’s dead. And who knows what happened to the uxan. ...”

  Caissir came closer. “Dead, eh. Well, I knew that I’d do better to strike off on my own. Never did like the desert,” He grinned.

  “So what are you doing with ... them? Didn’t know you had any interest in the communication arts.”

  “What? Oh, you mean the White Dancer
s. I met them on the road south. They said that raiders from the East were attacking small villages and outposts. They carry some great message for the king and the people of Tizare. I’m not privy to that, I’m afraid. But they agreed to take me with them rather than letting me be cut up for the bellies of the liskash—”

  “They don’t eat dead mrem.” It was Ashre, standing stock-still next to Falon.

  “Say, he’s in a cheerful mood. Why so glum, Ash?”

  Falon raised a hand, trying to indicate that Caissir should back away and not press the kit.

  But Caissir took no notice.

  “Everyone knows the liskash aren’t above a quick nibble on a mrem from time to time.”

  “If you’re alive,” Ashre said, his eyes glowing. Then, with a cruel smile playing on his young face, he added, “But don’t worry. You’ll have time to get a close-up look really soon.”

  Falon gave Ashre’s shoulder a squeeze.

  “What does that mean? What are you talking about, Ashre?” Caissir looked positively terrified.

  “Don’t mind him,” Taline said. She walked up close to Caissir, smiling. She didn’t seem to hold any grudge against Caissir for his departure.

  “Oh, Taline, I’m sorry that I—”

  She laughed, the first time Falon heard that sound in days. “Don’t worry, Caissir. Falon explained that, whatever else you may be, you’re not an adventurer.”

  “Quite right.” Caissir puffed himself up. “In fact, I’m a wizard. Why, once—”

  The Chief Dancer of the White Dancers walked over to them. Her fur was pure white, whether naturally or from the special dye used by the cult. Her eyes were a gentle, luminescent green.

  “We are about to start moving again. You and your friends,” she said to Caissir, “are welcome to travel with us. It will be safer for all of you.” Her eyes seemed to flare and she glanced down quickly, meaningfully at Ashre.

  Paralan was off by himself, running a stone back and forth on both sides of his blade. He seemed lost to them now, lost to his own world of revenge.

  “Thank you,” Falon said, “we’d like that.”