The Wizard's Gambit

by Kylie Betzner

  Tonight was like a family reunion.

  He called one last time to his pack before returning to his room to get his satchel. A boot hit the double doors just as he pulled them shut behind him. He snatched up his satchel and rushed out into the night; however, his path led him through a garden, where he chanced upon an unexpected acquaintance from his past.

  Laerilas stared at the reflection of himself and Wynry in the fish pond,3 trying not to curl his lip as her dress molted in the water. Just when he thought she could not top the gown made from live butterflies, she had. And to make it worse, she’d stuck leaves and sticks in her hair. After gazing into the pond for what seemed like ages, she lifted her head and smiled at him.

  “Are we not the most handsome couple?”

  “Do you think so?” He checked the reflection again.

  “Oh, Laerilas, you know I adore everything about you.” She giggled a bit too childishly even for a woman dressed in songbirds. Then her smile faded. “There is one little flaw,” she said, reaching up to stroke his brow. “When are you going to do something about those dark caterpillars on your face? They are very distracting.”

  “When they make a dye that doesn’t cause blindness,” he said to her disappointment before adding, “It would be a shame if I were unable to see your beautiful face.”

  “An acceptable answer,” she said before rising for a kiss.

  He accepted it, half-heartedly, but it satisfied her.

  She smiled as she pulled away. “Just think, when you return, we’ll be wed.”

  “Yes.” He curled his lip in what he hoped was a convincing smile. Every other phrase she spoke was a reminder of their impending union. For some reason, just the mention of it made his stomach clench, but that was normal, or so he had been told. He added, “Let us hope this competition is a short one.”

  “For your sake, I do, too,” she said, eyes watering. “I can only imagine all of the horrible things that could happen to you—hacked to pieces, gored, or worse. At the least, you could be maimed.”

  Ironic, Laerilas thought, that he had abandoned his role as a tanner to escape such risks only to encounter them now. The royals, it turned out, did not live such cushy lives. In fact, his affiliation to them put him in more danger than ever before. He was starting to think he’d made a mistake weaseling his way into the royal family. If only he’d listened to his grandfather so many months ago—

  “And what if they couldn’t identify your body?” she continued her spiel, which was interrupted when someone entered the garden.

  Laerilas was grateful at first for the disruption until he recognized Mongrel. Then his face morphed into a scowl.

  Mongrel’s body stiffened, almost as if by standing there he would become invisible. If only.

  Wynry let out a shrill cry and grabbed onto Laerilas’ arm. “Look, it’s that vagabond from earlier today!” She pointed one skinny finger at him. “Do something before he harms me.”

  “It’s just a stray,” he said, avoiding Mongrel’s penetrating gaze. Maybe if he didn’t make eye contact—

  “Laerilas?”

  Too late.

  He shot Mongrel a piercing glare.

  Now Mongrel’s eyes lit up with recognition. “Laerilas, it is you!”

  “Dearest”—Wynry hissed between her teeth—“why does it speak to you by name?”

  “Never mind that,” he said, forcing a smile. “It’s late. Why don’t you return to your room? I’ll take care of the stray. Tomorrow, you’ll see me off before the competition starts.”

  “Very well,” she said, walking away. Her gown cawed with each step and left a trail of feathers in her wake.

  When she was out of earshot, Mongrel rushed over to Laerilas, arms open for an embrace, but before he could, Laerilas stepped back and folded his arms over his chest, giving Mongrel a glassy stare. Mongrel halted and let his arms drop at his sides. Tension hung in the air like fog. Of course, Mongrel couldn’t handle the silence.

  “Laerilas . . . you . . . dyed your hair?” he said. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

  “And yours is still red,” said Laerilas, woodenly.

  “Still red.” Mongrel scratched the back of his neck, a gesture that annoyed Laerilas to no end. “So, you’re engaged to an elven princess . . . congratulations. I didn’t know you liked her.”

  “I adore her,” he said flatly.

  “Regardless, she’s a princess and you’re a . . . well . . .”

  “Preserver of Nature,” he finished. “Now I’m a member of the king’s guard.”

  “No kidding?” Mongrel shook his head in disbelief. “How did you get the position? You were only a taxidermist.”

  Laerilas sucked in a deep breath and held it for a minute before letting it out with a huff. “Preserver of Nature,” he corrected Mongrel once again and went on. “An opening came up, and it was offered to me. Perhaps it was for my hunting skills or because I have a knack for stuffing dead animals . . . though it’s just as likely I received the position because the king’s daughter favored me. I know not. It matters not.”

  “When?”

  “A few months ago, actually,” he said. “Although, the promotion could not have come soon enough.” He set his coldest gaze on Mongrel. “I had quite a lot of damage control to do. It wasn’t very popular having an outsider in our company.”

  Mongrel flinched as though struck. As always, he recovered quickly. “Here, I brought you something.” He opened his satchel, took out the stuffed rabbit head, and offered it to him.

  Laerilas recoiled. “Why is that thing here? I told you to get rid of it years ago.”

  “I thought you might want it back,” he said, coaxing him to take it. “I don’t have a place to hang it anymore on the account I left my job, but I thought maybe you’d have a place for it here.”

  “There is no place in my home for something like that!”

  Mongrel cradled the thing as though to shield it from Laerilas’ wrath. “Don’t you remember how much fun we had making this together?”

  Of course he did, but for Laerilas, the memory was not such a pleasant one. Even now, several years later, he loathed to be reminded. It had been five or six months into Mongrel’s stay and the first time Mongrel had been allowed to assist him with a project. It had also been the first time he and Mongrel had ever gotten along—a mistake Laerilas had never replicated for all the shame it had brought him.

  “Whose idea was it to put the horns on the rabbit anyway?” Mongrel’s voice pulled him back into the present.

  “Yours,” said Laerilas accusingly. “A jackalope, you had called it. You were always mocking the craft with your rogue taxidermy.”

  Mongrel chuckled, no doubt recalling how Laerilas had held the horns to his own head while making the suggestion, saying how rare it would be; after all, the king had requested a rare white rabbit, and rare it was. “What a fun project that was.”

  “Maybe for you the rabbit is just a joke.” Laerilas scowled. “Grandfather was so ashamed of me. I never should have let you talk me into it.”

  “All right, I’ll hold onto it.” Mongrel put the rabbit away. “I just thought you’d be over it by now.”

  Of course, he would. Humans had such short memories. Unlike elves, who never forgot a grudge—or a mistake for that matter. Laerilas could attest to that, considering he was still paying for his grandfather’s mistake. But not much longer, he told himself. Soon he’d return victorious from the competition and wed the king’s daughter. All would be forgotten, or at least brushed under the rug, one of the perks of joining the royal family.

  “It’s a shame you won’t be following in his footsteps.” Mongrel was, of course, referring to his grandfather. “He always had his heart set on you becoming a . . . well, you know.”

  “How dare you speak to me of my grandfather’s wishes as though you knew them!” Laerilas sneered. “It’s a tremendous honor to be a member of the king’s guard and engaged to the king’s only daughte
r. I’m practically a prince. I think he’d be proud.”

  “I think he’d be worried,” said Mongrel. “Do you even know why you’re here?”

  “I’m here because I have to be,” said Laerilas. “You, however, should not be here.”

  “So I’ve been told.” Mongrel smirked. “It seems I don’t belong anywhere.”

  “Mongrel—” he started to say when another member of the king’s guard, Aerin, joined them in the garden.

  Laerilas tensed as she came beside him. Of all the members of the king’s guard, Aerin was the most intimidating. She was also the only woman. Mongrel, too, hunkered in her presence.

  She glowered at him as she spoke to Laerilas. “Gwyndor requests an audience with you.”

  Laerilas made a pained expression. “Does he really?”

  Aerin nodded. She needn’t do anything else.

  “Very well. Let him know I’ll be there shortly.”

  “Don’t keep him waiting.” She gave an impatient shake of her waist-long blonde hair before hurrying off. Laerilas stood frozen in place.

  “Laerilas?”

  “I must be going,” he said hastily. “I doubt we’ll have another opportunity to talk once the competition starts, so let me take this moment to offer you a final warning. Go home. There is no reason for you to be here except to further humiliate me. And know this: if you do stay and we encounter each other out there, don’t expect any leniency from me. You’ve been warned. Now, leave.”

  “I won’t,” he said, stubborn as usual. “I can’t.”

  “Have it your way.” Laerilas stormed away, leaving Mongrel alone in the garden. In the distance, the wolves called, their tone insistent, as if they were calling something. Laerilas gulped. He only hoped he had not kept Gwyndor waiting too long.

  Where was that idiot, Gwyndor wondered, and who did he think he was to keep him—the king’s eldest son—waiting? Alone in the ballroom, Gwyn brooded on these thoughts while he worked in some last minute target practice. More so, he was blowing off steam.

  Arrows stuck out of the wall, portraits, fruit bouquets, and every other decoration Wizard White Beard had placed within range. His arrows were nearly spent, but his anger was not.

  “Curse him,” he muttered as he selected another arrow and nocked it. “Curse that despicable old man.”

  Even the memory stirred fresh anger. He tried not to think about it, but his thoughts pulled him back to an hour or so after the reception when his father had summoned him to his guest room for a private meeting. Like a good son and loyal servant, he’d obliged.

  He’d found his father on the balcony, reclining on a piece of patio furniture. His hair had spilled over the back of the chair and had touched the ground. He’d sat like a cat in leisure, relaxed but always alert, eyeing his son as he’d come to stand before him.

  “Why have you kept me waiting?” His father had asked with a frown.

  “Forgive me, my king, but I meant to get in some last minute practice.” And indeed he had. Only moments before, he’d been lacing his wrist guards when his father’s personal attendant had come knocking on his door.

  “What good would one more practice do you?”

  He’d assured his father he was ready.

  “Are you now?” His father had doubted him.

  Perhaps that was why he refused to die, Gwyn had mused. Maybe he did not think his son was ready to assume the throne. Or perhaps there was some other reason his father lingered on this earth, well past his expiration date.

  Gwyn assumed it was his father’s tremendous power that kept death at bay. There was no other explanation for how a man nearly twelve hundred years old, could pass for a man in his first century. Even for an elf, this kind of longevity was . . . unnatural. He would have to rely on magic, which he had in excess. Even from a distance, the force of Lindolyn’s power, radiating from his body like sunlight, had struck Gwyn. From where this power came and how he channeled it, Gwyn had no idea. But one thing he knew for sure. Magic did not have power over death.

  Gwyn selected his next target, the tower of fruit, and drew. He couldn't focus on his aim, only on his father's words: “Surely you were not prepared for there to be a late entry.”

  “No one could have foreseen that.”

  “Yes, but if you’re going to have any hopes of winning this competition, you’re going to have to be ready for anything. Do you understand?”

  Of course, he had. Why had his father treated him like a child? He was nearly four hundred years old, practically middle-aged. “The stray will not pose a problem for me.”

  His father had smiled—so help him, his father had smiled. “That is good, but I wonder if he will pose a problem for our newest member.”

  “I will see that he does not.”

  “Very good,” his father had said and went on to remind him, as though he hadn't already known, how important it was for him to win the competition. Victory, he’d said, would ensure their rightful claim over all the civilized world. Failure, on the other hand, would doom their kingdom to ruin.

  Reflecting now, Gwyn thought his father had looked worn then, but he was not concerned, considering the topic of which they spoke. He imagined it had been hard to put on a cheerful expression while discussing impending doom. Then, in the middle of their conversation, Wynry had come rushing in—ruffling in rather—all flustered and dropping feathers. Before Gwyn could interject, she’d begun ranting about that stray ruining her perfect evening and how embarrassed she’d been that he had come. She’d begged their father to have him destroyed, but he had declined, reminding her that this was the wizard’s will—as though their father had ever taken that old man seriously.

  This answer had not pleased her, and in her rage, she’d startled the birds. One of them had pecked her arm, drawing blood. In an instant, the king had jumped out of his chair and was holding the wound in his hand. He hadn’t let go until her eyelids had flickered and her body had slumped.

  Gwyn was unable to recall the last time his father had touched him so tenderly. But he did remember the look on his father’s face after he’d released her: rejuvenated, younger even. Wynry, on the other hand, had looked drained.

  Once Wynry had been escorted back to her room, Lindolyn had turned on his eldest son. The tender look had all but gone from his face.

  “Listen to me, Gywndor, and listen well.” His tone had been serious. “Either come back a champion, or don’t come back at all.”

  Those final words still reverberated in Gwyn’s mind like a gong.

  His muscles tensed. He needed to release the arrow, the tension.

  Gwyn focused on his target, exhaled, and let loose. The arrow sailed straight and true, hitting a pear in the center of the fruit tower. The rest of the fruit tumbled to the floor. One of the apples rolled to him. He stopped it with his foot and picked it up. Turning it in his hand, he wondered how he might incorporate it into his target practice. What he needed was another outlet, better yet, a recipient for his anger, but who?

  “You sent for me?”

  Laerilas Forestfriend, second in command of the king’s guard, stood in the entryway to the ballroom. He trembled like a leaf.

  A smile played at the corner of Gwyn’s lips. “I did,” he said, and without another word, he crossed the room to where Laerilas waited, placed the apple atop his head, and then backed away about ten paces. Laerilas’ eyes widened as Gwyn selected an arrow from his quiver, nocked it, and took aim right above his head.

  “My prince?”

  “Quiet,” he snapped. “You’ll mess up my shot.”

  Laerilas pressed his lips together and closed his eyes while Gwyn took aim at the apple. He was tempted to miss.

  Snap! The bowstring echoed the arrow's release—then crunch! The arrow hit its target. Laerilas froze as a sticky substance oozed down his forehead.

  The fool. He actually thought he’d been shot. Gwyn would have laughed if he wasn’t so irritated. “It’s juice, you fool. See that giant bo
wl of fruit over there on the banquet table?”

  The tower of fruit—well, what remained of it—sat not far from where his whipping boy stood. A few apples and pears as well as some other fruits Gwyn did not recognize from his woods remained. At least the round orange-colored fruit looked edible. He couldn’t even imagine what that curvy yellow fruit would taste like or how anyone had ever looked at it and decided it was food. By the curl of Laerilas’ lip, Gwyn could tell he was thinking the same thing.

  “Have one,” Gwyn told him, and after a moment’s hesitation, Laerilas reached over and selected an apple from the arrangement.

  “Good choice.” Gwyn smiled. “Green apples have always been my favorite.”

  Laerilas offered a weak smile in return.

  “Now, put it on your head.”

  Laerilas did as he was told.

  Meanwhile, Gwyn adjusted the tension on his bow. “Do not think for a moment that I invited you here simply to talk,” he said, finally satisfied with his adjustments. He took another arrow from the quiver. “You’re going to help me with my target practice.”

  Laerilas flinched as the arrow struck the apple, causing the skewered fruit to drop to the floor and roll under the table, leaving a trail of juice and pulp in its wake.

  “Have another.” Gwyn gestured to the fruit bowl. “One of those orange ones.”

  Laerilas obeyed, and before Gwyn even had to ask, he set it atop his head.