by Sharon Lee
The visitation turned and saw the terrified man in the cage, reached out as if to pick him up, the booming voice continuing to threaten. "I curse you, Kinzel. You will remain without a home for yourself or your soul until you pluck a griffin's egg from its home roost! I declare it!"
Kinzel felt the magic and saw the man and trap move, magically. Distracted, he heard Fallan continuing...
"...and as I am Fallan! I curse your staff!-"
The night stopped.
Kinzel felt no rain, felt no touch of Idren, felt nothing but the staff in his hand. It was as if he'd been drawn back to the very moment he'd first touched the staff in the cold of creation. He heard nothing. No sound of rain, no sounds of the beasts in the mud, no word from the world reached him.
Echoing in his mind were the words, "I curse your staff!"
He knew nothing other than his own desire when he'd sought out and demanded that staff with his full being: "I require a Staff of pure white Power ... a Staff of True, Actual Power..."
Kinzel felt the expending of Power that was the wounded mage being returned to his foul companions. Despite that drain, the glowering image of Fallan continued to grow.
The understanding came to Kinzel that his life was forfeit: Fallan had drawn up his full resources and could crush them all whenever he chose.
He'd never let go the cat ear, the cat eyes, the cat-
Mindlessly, defiantly, Kinzel screamed, "Attack!" and raised his staff to swing at the mammoth Fallan glaring down at them.
In his mind was the urge to strike, to drive back, to force the terrible mage back to his own territories, to strike again and again until-
The staff was green lightning and hard stone. It was greenwood and brownwood, a cudgel filled with all of Kinzel's focused wrath.
Kinzel stood now on dry even floor in the cold blackness of creation. The field, his friends, the cats - they were all elsewhere. Here was Fallan!
Fallan was tall, but Kinzel swung out with the staff, nearly knocking the wizard's tall hat from his head. Kinzel swung again, struck an arm this time - knowing elation - swung again as the mage fended him away, this time striking the man's knee solidly.
Then Fallan's staff was to hand, and Kinzel felt the jarring blow of staff meeting staff, of the blow blocked near his head, of the blow blocked that would have crushed his ribs.
Kinzel was no cudgel master. Neither, though, was Fallan.
Kinzel's blocking tactics changed: Fallan was trying to back away, to have time to cast spells! Kinzel blocked now by pushing at the other mage, each defensive thrust giving threat as well.
The exertion was telling rapidly on the pudgy mage, whose head and arm had ached to start. Fallan feinted with his staff and Kinzel fell for it, feeling the enemy blow glance off his heel.
Fallan brought his staff up in the time he'd gained, began to tell a spell, reached to touch his staff-
Kinzel saw defeat.
Still, he brought his staff around, fully expecting-
Nothing happened.
Fallan touched his staff again, muttering.
Kinzel stood breathlessly, sweat pouring down his round face, no longer having the urge to beat Fallan into the ground. Fallan stood, sides heaving, glaring at the mage who'd fought him physically to a standstill.
"Enough, Mage," said Fallan, finally. He also was breathing heavily and sweating. "You prove your point - my apprentice deserved a setdown. I was in error to react so swiftly without consulting you."
Fallan paused for breath, gestured carefully with his hand. "Your error was in not consulting me before taking his Power. It is a Balance of sorts." By the time he finished, Fallan was leaning on his staff.
Kinzel was leaning on his own staff now, wary. Fight was gone from him, as was strength. He nodded.
"As you say, Fallan." He breathed heavily, trying to relax slightly. "A Balance of sorts. Hard lessons all around this day, I suspect."
"Agreed," said Fallan, staring openly at Kinzel's unmarred staff, "hard lessons. I shall not disturb you lightly again."
"Agreed," said Kinzel, feeling ritual. "I shall consider my errors and learn from them." Kinzel's eyes were on the bent gold, the smashed traceries, the ruined gem-cups and broken designs on the face of Fallan's staff. Tonedrin had been right: salvation lay in having carried the fight to the enemy, in having disrupted Fallan's Staff-magics. Good luck of the highest order.
"Until we meet again, be well," said Fallan, bowing.
"Until then," Kinzel bowed.
Fallan turned, strode a half-step into darkness, and was gone.
The cold fell from around Kinzel; he stood in the rain beside Idren and Tonedrin, who were watching the empty sky.
"I told you he was a mighty mage!" said Idren in the darkness. "I told you."
Kinzel leaned heavily on his staff, saying nothing as the nightstorm brought on real thunder. The rain swept the salt of his sweat to the earth, and the new cold of honest water and night air began to overwhelm him.
After a moment, Tonedrin and Idren saw him beside them, and helped the exhausted mage back toward the comfort of hearthfire.
KINZEL THE ARBITER
On balance it was not the best place to practice magic. Kinzel shrugged off that thought as the sun burned away the two-day fog; magic was afoot, concentration necessary.
Shrouded sunlight limned a cliff-edge barely two paces to his right. He could hear the busy growl of the river far below. Six paces to his left, the ledge ended again, falling away into the wooded valley he'd spent the last week wandering through, exploring fox and rabbit paths to see what they said to a staffed-but-homeless wizard.
Kinzel was practicing magic in this chancy place because it offered some shelter from the damp breeze falling from the mountain range to the west, and because he dearly needed practice. Luck and more luck had protected him in his encounter with Fallan, he knew. He'd walked carefully for some days after that encounter, never sure of the truce, and never finding that depth of power he'd somehow tapped that night.
Ah, and praise Madog, all ye springflowers, without his former master's warning he'd be dead or empty even now.
Having fought Fallan to a draw Kinzel had then spent much of his remaining energy saving the life of a cat; only the loan of Power from fledgling apprentice Idren enabled the pudgy mage to complete this Balance, for he surely knew the cats had been as much a part of his victory as Tonedrin or Idren.
A long week he'd stayed at the small home, recovering his energy and trying to teach Idren what he would know of the proper use of magic. When Madog showed up - in person! no less - seeking Idren as apprentice, Kinzel had finally relaxed, feeling his balance complete.
And now, years beyond the days he should have learned such things, Kinzel struggled with the simple spells and backgrounds - uncommon pleased to perform such minor magics as many apprentices did daily.
For the fifth time in as many hours Kinzel brought his attention to the tiny fire and carefully arranged apparatus. In the bottom of a small metal cup were several lumps of sand and lime. The heat was symbolic - an aid to an unsure worker's concentration. The frame of wood above all was carefully bent to channel magical energy. Beside the flame, and attached to it through magic, was another metal cup, this holding a specially shaped piece of glass. Kinzel took a deep breath and concentrated, pulling into himself some of the warmth of the sun as he strove to expand his horizons and focus magical energy.
FWWWMMMPP! The sharp noise was followed by a yniinnnng sound as fire jumped to metal.
Hastily, Kinzel grabbed a forked stick to move the cup. Glass in the bottom! Could it have worked this time?
Dumping the cup gingerly into his cloth-covered hand, Kinzel felt a touch of pride. He'd not only gotten glass this time, but glass that, at least on the surface, matched the other.
Knowing that glass retains heat, he resisted the urge to immediately put lenses together to see if they worked the way Madog's had worked. Instead, he sat back, sighing a littl
e from exertion, and became aware of - a sound.
A whistle, from a human mouth. It was a commanding sort of noise, effortlessly riding above the river's complaint, from the far shore.
Kinzel peered through the lingering mist, spying a ghostly form. Ah, that would be the bridge on his map. He'd heard from other travelers about the bridge: it was three hundred paces long and in the center was a roofed portion to offer shelter from the noon sun or sudden storms. The spire of that roof stood out clearly while the rest of the amazing structure faded away into the mists. A thousand paces below it, on either side of the river, were towns.
Kinzel, moving toward the coast in his wanderings, needed to cross the river eventually and, lacking even the faintest concept of the shape of a flying spell, had long ago hit upon this bridge as the next best thing to flight. He felt another glow of pride that he had so ably followed the chart; then let it fade as he turned back to more immediate concerns.
The whistle recurred every few moments as Kinzel dismantled the crude Funnel and placed a tiny pot over the flame. No reason to waste a good fire, after all.
As the tea brewed, a second whistle sounded. The new whistle came invitingly from Kinzel's side of the river. Perhaps he should investigate? He thought it over and regretfully dismissed the idea; wizard work must take precedence, after all.
Kinzel shrugged his shoulders and, gauging the time to be proper, placed the lenses side-by-side on a piece of blue-dyed leather on the chest-high ledge. They reflected flashes of sunlight back at the sky. He had done it!
He sat, leaning comfortably against the rock face, happily sipping tea, considering what he would look at first. The bridge below? Properly, of course, the lenses should be enclosed in brass or wooden tube. Perhaps there would be a carpenter or smith in one of the towns.
Woosh! accompanied a swift shadow and a burst of breeze. Kinzel, started, spilling tea; and there, on the ledge above him, was a large, gray - what? Not an owl, nor a hawk ... A gray crow?
The bird studied him from both eyes in turn, cheerful and unafraid. "Braddak," it announced; and elucidated: "Braddak carthulu!" So saying, it cheerfully picked up the shining lens in its beak and stepped off the edge of the cliff.
"Braddak, come back!" yelled Kinzel, struggling to his feet - far too late. The bird whispered out over the river, loot firmly in beak. Kinzel ignored the whistles as he strained to see. Where? There! Nearly lost in the shadows of valley green it veered and headed toward-
Toward the bridge!
Hastily gathering his small kit, Kinzel snatched up his staff, setting off at his best pace toward the river and the bridge.
***
Viewed this way, rather than from far above, the bridge was an imposingly solid structure, built of stout logs on stone supports. Wide enough for two wagons to pass, as was proper for one of the two main routes to the sea, it was planked with shaved oak. The central stone support was wider than the bridge itself, allowing room for two towers that together supported the roof so favored by traveling folk.
And there was Braddak.
Atop one of the two central towers, the crow watched Kinzel approach, blithefully unconcerned about the depth of the gorge or the turbulent waters below. Light glinted from the lens in its beak.
Kinzel shivered; height was not one of his joys. Despite its massive construction, the bridge shook minutely with the thunder of the torrents.
He began to coo softly as he walked, gradually raising the volume and varying dialects to see which might be most soothing to the bird.
The crow approached the roof-edge closest to Kinzel as the mage advanced.
"Braddak," he said soothingly, "that's my glass. Please let me have it."
Braddak turned his head from side to side, studying Kinzel from each eye in turn. Carefully, he put the lens on the shingle at his feet and muttered, "Braddak croncronatrun."
"I know you found it. But I made it. You took it from my hoard and it's mine." He spoke with the gentle firmness one uses with scavengers.
The bird shifted eyes nervously as he looked down at the wizard and his staff, fascinated by leaves that moved when no breeze did.
Kinzel could barely touch the edge of the roof with the tip of an outstretched finger. He might have to climb, after all. Being a wizard lay in doing the required. The shiver hid.
The bird muttered again.
Kinzel tried a bit of the universal bird language learned from Madog long ago. It had come as a shock to him back then that others had bothered to try to talk with the birds: he'd been beaten by his father for trying that.
Braddak's head came up sharply as he looked from right to left and back again. Kinzel had been trying to tell the bird he was willing to be its friend, and he fervently hoped Madog hadn't confused the bird-talk he'd gotten from Siljan, or taught him seagull instead.
Abruptly, the mage became aware again of whistles. The commanding whistle was strenuously demanding now; the more inviting was at the point of pleading.
Under both beat the steady rhythm of hooves.
Horses, from his left and his right, simultaneously. The tone changed: the horses were on the bridge.
The little wizard glanced to either side, concerned that the approaching horsemen would scare Braddak.
The riders were well-dressed. Neither looked a tradesman nor did either seem as intent upon Kinzel as upon the bird. Leaning forward, both urged their mounts to greater speed.
Kinzel dashed to the safety of the pedestrian walk under the roof of the central tower, staff held upright between him and those who approached at breakneck speed.
"Precedence!" howled the left-hand horseman. "Make room for the Judge of Hartwell! Precedence!"
"Judge Falter says hold! Hold for the Law! Hold for the Judge of Carr!" demanded the other.
Braddak retreated to the ridge of the walkway roof, taking his bauble with him.
Hartwell arrived first, looked at Kinzel without seeing him, and jumped out of the saddle, directing his commanding whistle at the gray crow.
Judge Falter arrived just then and added his pleading whistle to the general ruckus, shoving his reins into Kinzel's hand as he strode by.
The little wizard stepped to the horse and spoke a low command to the beast before leaving it to stand, reins dangling.
"What is this nonsense, Falter? This bird's mine! I've been raising her for months!"
"No, no, dear colleague Stirt! This is the self-same bird I have been working with for nearly a year. Landlin is mine! See how keenly he watches me, even in the presence of strangers?"
"Please, gentlemen, this is not required. We can..."
To no avail. Kinzel went unheard.
At this point, the object of contention itself stepped into the fray.
"Braddak grreladenow craakkk clatclatdak Braddak!"
Kinzel glanced up and extended an uncharacteristically swift hand, catching the lens as it fell from the beak.
The effect on the gentlemen was immediate.
"Give me that!" they demanded as one.
"It is mine," Kinzel explained gently; "a lens Braddak took from my camp this very morning."
"A lens, quotha!" cried Stirt of Hartwell. "It looked like a diamond to me! Anything the bird brings is mine, as I own the bird!"
"I also believe that object is a diamond," said Falter, "and I will thank you, sirrah, to return me my property!"
Kinzel shook his head grimly and displayed the 'diamond.'
Judge Falter snatched it up, raised it to the sky, and squinted through it. "Glass," he stated succinctly. "A mere lens."
"I concur," said Judge Stirt a moment later, at the conclusion of his own study. "A lens. Common glass. You may have it."
"I may have it?" Kinzel inquired quietly. "I may have what is mine, by right of making? There is no doubt..."
"In any case," Judge Falter interrupted, "I would have returned it to you. Glass is of no value to me."
Kinzel opened his mouth. His reply was unheard due to the
sudden advent of goats, closely followed by a goatherd, he in turn by an ox cart loaded with lumber. From the opposite direction, a similar cart hove into view, this one bearing covered baskets. Quacking.
Distracted for a moment by all this activity, Kinzel suddenly became aware that Stirt was attempting to scale the roof, whistling as he did.
"Wait, thief!" shouted Falter, pulling on Stirt's foot. "It's my bird!"
The judge aloft slipped, fingers scrabbling for a hold among the shingles before he crashed down, taking his attacker with him to the deck. Sensing the advantages of his position, he exerted himself to hold the other man flat, but Judge Falter was having none of it. In a moment they were rolling on the dusty wooden deck, wonderfully heedless of their fine clothes and golden chains.
The goats stopped in rapt astonishment and looked to their goatherd. The driver of the lumber-cart pulled his team to and whistled loudly through the gap in his front teeth before turning to place a wager with his mate.
Kinzel gaped, found the staff moving around and forward, heard a voice - his! - pronounce a Command.
"Halt!"
The two combatants rolled to a stop and stared up at the gray-cloaked figure in amazement.
The goatherd scratched his head, looking from bedraggled judges to pudgy magician before carefully bowing to the latter. "Good-day sir," he said politely, then nodded at the men on the deck. "And to you, judges."
"Sir? Sir?" Stirt was struggling to his feet. "Why, this gray lensman is a mere..." He stuttered to a halt, recalling the word that had pinned him motionless.
"A mere wizard, I think," said the goatherd. "Or a mage."
"What!" The amazed judges fell silent.
Unfortunately, this did not last long. Each, seeing Kinzel as a potential ally, demanded that his side in the affair of the crow be championed.
Kinzel shook his head. "My interest was the return of my lens. This has happened. It pains me to see two men at odds over the ownership of a crow ... but I see no evidence that either of you owns Braddak."
"Evidence!" cried Falter. "Evidence! You, sir, whose name we lack, could act as arbiter. I would have it ended and I fear my opponent would suggest we try the matter in his court. Does Gordon Goatherd have the right of it? Are you a wizard?"