The Wizard's Gambit

by Kylie Betzner

  “Very good, Laerilas,” he said, “or should I call you ‘brother’? After all, you are my brother-in-arms, but more importantly, you’re to wed my sister. That soon makes you my brother-in-law. Which do you prefer?”

  “I, uh . . .”

  “My sister would have me call you brother,” Gwyn continued, not caring to hear his response. “She is rather fond of you in her own way. At the very least, she knows you exist, which is rare for her.”

  “She can be a bit . . . aloof.”

  “A kind word for it.” Gwyn smiled, preparing his next shot. “Only she can be a tad self-involved. Having spent some time with her, I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

  “Well . . .”

  “You should know she still keeps her dolls.”

  “Does she?”

  “Oh, yes.” Gwyn chuckled. “You may be disturbed or delighted to know that she’s named one after you and is very sweet to him.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yes,” he said, taking aim. “For your sake, you should decide to find it charming.”

  “Very well.” Laerilas gulped. His eyes were crossed on the arrowhead pointing at his face.

  “Do you know why I lead the king’s guard?”

  “Because you are the king’s eldest son?”

  “Because I am the best.”

  “The best singer?”4

  “The best killer,” he said, pulling the bowstring to his cheek. His muscles made a sound like taut leather as they rippled on his back. “Did you know I once killed an ogre with nothing but an icicle?”

  “I had heard.”

  “Went clean through his head.”

  “I believe it.”

  “Do you know why I selected you to be a member of my father’s guard?”

  “Because of my hunting skills?

  “No.” He fired the arrow, and the orange exploded overhead. Laerilas blinked as the liquid stung his eyes. Gwyn found the scent rather pleasing.

  “Try again,” he said, and Laerilas chose another apple.

  “My marksmanship?” Laerilas winced as Gwyn readied his next shot.

  “Wrong again.” He loosed the arrow and readied another before the next apple was on Laerilas’ head.

  “My musical talents?”

  “Definitely not,” he said and fired again. “Your voice leaves much to be desired, and you have two left feet. Try again.”

  This time he chose a pear, determined to steer clear of those questionable yellow things it seemed. He squeezed his eyes shut as Gwyn prepared his next shot. “My smile?”

  Gwyn lowered his bow and gave him a hard stare. “Honestly?” He took aim and fired. The pear split in half. Seeds bounced off his head like raindrops.

  “Because your sister liked the birds?”

  Finally. Gwyn eased his grip on his bow. “You are correct. You should know it was fortune, not merit, that won her favor and you a place among my city’s finest. It is only a consolation to me that my sister chose a man with some skill with a bow and a knife. Your familiarity with these things will come in handy, I am sure. Certainly, your talents were wasted on stuffing dead animals.”

  “I am relieved to hear you say that.”

  “Don’t mistake my words for praise,” he said. “You are ill-prepared for this role that you've suddenly been thrust into, you peasant-born peon. I fear your shortcomings will only inconvenience me and cause humiliation to my sister. And I cannot help but feel protective of her . . . though she is hardly aware that I exist.”

  “I promise you, I will prove my worth in this competition.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you will.” Gwyn sneered. “For better or for worse, you will. And yet”—he narrowed his eyes at Laerilas—“I see you at a disadvantage when it comes to the stray.”

  “How so?” he asked.

  “We’ve all been trying so hard to pretend it didn’t happen, which is becoming increasingly difficult with his being in the competition.” Gwyn added, “It does not reflect well on you.”

  “It was my grandfather’s idea,” said Laerilas hurriedly. “I had no choice in the matter.”

  “Yes, and we were all very grateful when the stray wandered off shortly after Galaeron’s disappearance and possible death.”

  “It was a happy time for everyone.”

  “I’m afraid the stray’s reappearance was upsetting to my sister as well as my father, and therefore, to me,” he said. “His presence in the competition concerns me.”

  “In what way?”

  “I fear he poses a conflict of interest.”

  “He doesn’t.”

  “Are you sure?” Gwyn reached for another arrow. There was only one left.

  “I am certain,” Laerilas spoke with confidence as he balanced the last apple on his head. “That human means nothing to me.”

  “You’d better be sure of it.” Gwyn nocked the arrow and drew back on the bowstring. “I aim to win this competition. I cannot have any weakness in my group. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “If you so much as falter . . .” He loosed the arrow. It struck the apple. Juice trickled down Laerilas’s forehead. “You understand the consequences.”

  The juice left a trail down Laerilas’ cheek and pooled in the crevice above his mouth. He licked his lips clean. “Understood.”

  “Good.” Gwyn slung his bow over his shoulder and breathed a sigh of relief. He felt lighter for having spent some frustration on his future brother-in-law. “That’s enough practice for today. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “As long as you’re satisfied.” Laerilas wiped the juice off his face with his sleeve.

  “Then by all means, Laerilas, help yourself to some fruit.” He smirked, gesturing to the remnants of the fruit bowl. “Try the yellow ones. You might like them. They’re not so messy.”

  * * *

  1 The Universal Language is a language spoken and understood by all who inhabit the six—er—seven kingdoms. It doesn’t promote peace so much as it makes life simpler.

  2 Having a long beard was something of a bragging right among the men folk. In fact, they valued body hair so much that some dwarves even braided what grew under their arms.

  3 Not that any fish had survived that algae-ridden cesspool after so many years of neglect.

  4 The king’s guard doubled as a men’s show choir.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Read The Dullard’s Guide, he’d said. It’ll help you understand wizardry, he’d said. Well, there was a reason she hadn’t read it. It was boring. Put her to sleep. But not tonight even though it was well after midnight. The problem was she wasn’t tired, and as she struggled to read and reread the passages, her thoughts drifted to home. Not the university; she couldn’t care less if she ever stepped foot in that dusty old building again. Her actual home, not that she’d been there in years. But knowing her family, it was safe to assume things probably hadn’t changed much. Her father, a used horse salesman for more than thirty years, was probably still working at the same lot while her mother cleaned the same house day in and day out. No doubt her sister, Elsie, was still living in front of the mirror, modeling some new dress or trying out a new hairstyle. Such a conventional household—no wonder Margo had never fit in. But still she missed them, especially her mother. She wasn’t sure why, only that she needed some advice from her now—advice concerning . . . men.

  The thought alone brought a blush to her cheeks. If only her mother were here, she would comb her hair while explaining everything she needed to know about men and love—no, nothing that serious. She had only just met him, but there was . . . an attraction. At least on her part, but it was probably one-sided. Although—

  “Just forget it,” she told herself, but her memory replayed every awkward interaction with the red-haired man, from the moment they met to—

  “Tight butt.” She groaned. “How could I be so stupid?”

  She dropped her face into her hands and sunk onto the desk.

  “Oh, mo
ther, I wish you were here,” Margo muttered aloud. Moments like these made her resent ever leaving home. It would not be so bad if the university would just allow visitations, but once a student was admitted, all ties to the outside world were cut off, except when it came to official wizard business. If it weren’t for Wizard White Beard’s little “field trips,” she would never have any interaction whatsoever with non-magic users.

  Not that her fellow students offered her any meaningful interaction. Even among her peers, she was a misfit. She had tried to warm to them, but as always, her shy, awkward demeanor drove them away.

  If only she could be more like her sister. Older and more outgoing, Elsie was never without friends and admirers. Because of that, she never did understand why Margo had so much trouble fitting in, aside from her wardrobe, which was rather dull even back then. Only after several failed makeovers did Elsie admit their differences. Not that this stopped her from giving advice. But as a “normal” person, she would never understand what it was like to be different. So, even if she was there, she would be of no real help to Margo.

  And yet—Margo spotted the tiny wooden box in the corner of the desk. With trembling hands, she lifted the lid and sifted through the various bric-a-brac until she uncovered the item of interest: a gold pin in the shape of a flower, a daisy she was pretty sure. It twinkled in the candlelight, somewhat mischievously. Fitting, she thought, considering she wasn’t supposed to have it.

  “Always follow the rules, Margo, even the ones that don’t make sense,” she mimicked Wizard White Beard’s tone as she took it out of the box. Such a tiny keepsake, but oh the trouble she would be in if they discovered she’d kept it. It hardly seemed fair. And she had not meant to bring it along, only her sister had pinned it to her cloak just as the carriage was pulling out. It had been with her ever since, and from time to time when she had a moment to herself, she would take it out, hold it, and think of home.

  There was dust in some of the crevices. She blew it out. Had it really been so long since she’d held it?

  “It’s about time,” came a voice from somewhere in the room.

  Gasping, Margo enclosed the pin in her fingers and checked over her shoulder.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Down here, dummy.” The voice was muffled now.

  Were they under the floorboards? Margo tested them with her foot. Nope, they were nailed down tight.

  “Where are you? Show yourself.” She raised her hand and willed light to fill the room. No one was there.

  “Wizard White Beard, this isn’t funny,” she said. Indeed, her tone lacked all humor. She was tired of his pranks. His jokes were not even funny—even worse were his sporadic tests. “Am I being graded on this?”

  “Open your hand.”

  Slowly, she uncurled her fingers. The pin lit up in time with the words, “Hello, Margo.”

  “Eeek!” Margo dropped it on the ground, where it pulsated with every word it spoke.

  “That wasn’t very nice.”

  “How are you—”

  “Magic, obviously,” it said. The voice was hollow as though it were being spoken in an empty room. It was also distinctly female, which ruled out Wizard White Beard. But who else would try to reach her through a pin? Maybe some magic had gotten into it while practicing in her room. Perhaps if she’d read The Dullard’s Guide as instructed, she’d understand. For now she’d just have to roll with it.

  “So what took you so long?” The pin flickered. “I’ve been waiting a long time for you to visit me.”

  “I, uh . . .”

  “That’s not important; what’s important is we’re talking now,” it said. “So, tell me what’s on your mind. You seem distressed. School got you down?”

  “What? No.” Margo reached down and picked it up.

  “Clip me on,” it told her, and after some hesitation, Margo did as she was asked. It flickered with every word. “Boy troubles?”

  Of all the things for a talking pin to worry about. Margo’s suspicions returned. “Of course not. There’s no boy. After all, wizards can’t date.”

  “Don’t worry, sweetie, your secret’s safe with me. So tell me, who is he?”

  “I told you there’s no—wait a second, is this Wizard White Beard’s doing?”

  “That silly old wizard? Come on, Margo, think for a minute. Do you really think he’s capable of something this thoughtful?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Then spit it out already. Come on, you’re dying to tell me.”

  A talking pin was a far cry from her mother, but . . . “Oh, all right, there is this one guy." Margo chewed her bottom lip before continuing. “He’s really cute and sweet and . . .”

  “Go on.”

  “He’s got this red hair and—”

  “Sounds dreamy.”

  “He’s not like any of the boys I know from school. He’s different.”

  “So, what’s his name?”

  Margo hesitated. “Promise you won’t laugh.”

  “I make no promises. Tell me.”

  “Okay, it’s . . . Mongrel.”

  The pin lit up with laughter.

  Margo blushed. “It’s a long story, I’m sure. Anyway, I’m really curious about him, but—”

  “But what?”

  “Well, he’s sort of involved in this competition Wizard White Beard’s hosting. It might be a conflict of interest—”

  “So you are interested in him?”

  “Yes—no! Doesn’t matter. I won’t be able to speak with him once the competition starts.”

  “Where’s he at now?”

  “I don’t know. He left the party early.”

  ‘Then what are you waiting for? Let’s go find him.”

  Margo gasped. “Are you kidding?”

  “No, I’m serious. Let’s go!”

  “I don’t know . . .” Margo receded behind her hair.

  “Come on Margo, be brave for once. You’ll hate yourself forever if you don’t at least try. What’s the worst that can happen?”

  Further embarrassment for one. Not to mention Wizard White Beard would be furious if he found out she was meddling in the lives of one of his competitors. Besides, wizards weren’t allowed to fraternize with, well, anyone. But what harm could come from one private meeting?

  “You’re right,” she told the flower. “Let’s go.”

  She started for the door when the pin flickered.

  “Is that what you’re going to wear?”

  Margo looked down at her robe. It was plain but appropriate for a wizard’s apprentice. If nothing else, it was clean.

  “This is what I always wear,” she said. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It’s kind of dull, don’t you think?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Don’t you have any pretty dresses?”

  “Why would I? Wizards don’t wear pretty dresses. They aren’t allowed to date.” She spun away from the door. “I can’t do this!”

  “Yes, you can!”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “You’ve got to. If not for you, for me. I really need you to start wearing me out.”

  “Forget it,” she told the pin, only for it to keep fighting. How foolish for a wizard’s apprentice to be arguing with a piece of jewelry. If only she could figure out how to turn the darn thing off. That’s when she remembered the secret box.

  While the pin flickered on, Margo unclipped it from her shirt, dropped it back inside the box, and shut the lid. She doubted she’d be brave enough to take it out again anytime soon.

  While Margo wasn’t brave enough to seek out Mongrel, her mentor was, though his intentions were anything but romantic. Questions were on his mind, ones that needed answered before the competition started. After wandering the halls for hours without success, his search finally led him to the throne room. There he found him standing before the dais, staring at the empty throne. At first he’d mistaken him for a statue, but the movement of his hair had given hi
m away. Soft hair, bright eyes, and covered in furs—this man was most definitely not a statue. Yet there was something about him that wasn’t exactly human either. Wizard White Beard dared to imagine there wasn’t another person like him in the entire world.

  Mongrel startled as Wizard White Beard approached.

  “Don’t be alarmed. It’s only me,” he spoke from the shadows.

  Mongrel peered through the darkness. “Wizard Pointy Hat?”

  “White Beard, actually.” He stepped into the light, revealing himself.

  “Right, I get it.” Mongrel laughed, gesturing to the beard. “So I imagine that’s a popular name among wizards.”

  “You’d be surprised how few hopefuls actually achieve master wizard status,” he said, smiling. “And they all receive a unique pseudonym.”

  “So you’re the only one with a white beard?”

  “Not exactly,” he said. “Others have white beards, but theirs might be curly or straight, long or short. There are so many nuances it’s unlikely there’ll ever be a repetition of names.”

  “I see,” he said and cocked his head. “Are there any Wizard Red Beards?”

  “There’s one. He’s the laboratory instructor at the university. He teaches the students how to mix chemicals and blow things up.”

  “Sounds neat.”

  “Indeed.” Wizard White Beard smiled. “So, Mongrel, you understand how I got my name, but I am curious to know, how you acquired yours. I imagine there’s an interesting story behind a name like that.”

  “Not really.” He shrugged. “That’s what they’ve always called me.”

  “Surely you have a real name.”

  “Do you?”

  “That name is behind me.”

  “I see,” Mongrel said after some thought. “Well, for me, this is the only name I know. What I was rightly named before I have no idea.”

  “Before?”

  “Before the wolves found me.”

  “Interesting. Please elaborate.”

  “Well, for starters, I was abandoned in the woods as a baby for reasons I don’t know. I was picked up by a wolf and taken back to his den. He wanted to eat me, but the mother wolf decided I’d make a better nurse mate for her pups than dinner. So she—”