None of those on the bench had the courage to gaze into her fierce stare. To the last they all silently shook their heads. “Please wait,” she said to those seated. “Someone will shortly be out to take you to a wizard.” She looked once more to the five people standing. “Are you all very, very sure of this?”
Abby nodded. The old woman nodded. The noble glared.
“Very well then. Come with me.”
The noble and his two men stepped in front of Abby. The old woman seemed content to take a station at the end of the line. They were led deeper into the Keep, through narrow halls and wide corridors, some dark and austere and some of astounding grandeur. Everywhere there were soldiers of the Home Guard, their breastplates or chain mail covered with red tunics banded around their edges in black. All were heavily armed with swords or battle-axes, all had knives, and many additionally carried pikes tipped with winged and barbed steel.
At the top of a broad white marble stairway the stone railings spiraled at the ends to open wide onto a room of warm oak paneling. Several of the raised panels held lamps with polished silver reflectors. Atop a three-legged table sat a double-bowl cut-glass lamp with twin chimneys, their flames adding to the mellow light from the reflector lamps. A thick carpet of ornate blue patterns covered nearly the entire wood floor.
To each side of a double door stood one of the meticulously dressed Home Guard. Both men were equally huge. They looked to be men more than able to handle any trouble that might come up the stairs.
The sorceress nodded toward a dozen thickly tufted leather chairs set in four groups. Abby waited until the others had seated themselves in two of the groupings and then sat by herself in another. She placed the sack in her lap and rested her hands over its contents.
The sorceress stiffened her back. “I will tell the First Wizard that he has supplicants who wish to see him.”
A guard opened one of the double doors for her. As she was swallowed into the great room beyond, Abby was able to snatch a quick glimpse. She could see that it was well lighted by glassed skylights. There were other doors in the gray stone of the walls. Before the door closed, Abby was also able to see a number of people, men and women both, all rushing hither and yon.
Abby sat turned away from the old woman and the three men as with one hand she idly stroked the sack in her lap. She had little fear that the men would talk to her, but she didn’t want to talk to the woman; it was a distraction. She passed the time going over in her mind what she planned to say to Wizard Zorander.
At least she tried to go over it in her mind. Mostly, all she could think about was what the sorceress had said, that the First Wizard was called the wind of death, not only by the D’Harans, but also by his own people of the Midlands. Abby knew it was no tale to scare off supplicants from a busy man. Abby herself had heard people whisper of their great wizard, “The wind of death.” Those whispered words were uttered in dread.
The lands of D’Hara had sound reason to fear this man as their enemy; he had destroyed countless of their troops, from what Abby had heard. Of course, if they hadn’t invaded the Midlands, bent on conquest, they would not have felt the hot wind of death.
Had they not invaded, Abby wouldn’t be sitting there in the Wizard’s Keep—she would be at home, and everyone she loved would be safe.
Abby marked again the odd tingling sensation from the bracelet. She ran her fingers over it, testing its unusual warmth. This close to a person of such power it didn’t surprise her that the bracelet was warming. Her mother had told her to wear it always, and that someday it would be of value. Abby didn’t know how, and her mother had died without ever explaining.
Sorceresses were known for the way they kept secrets, even from their own daughters. Perhaps if Abby had been born gifted …
She sneaked a peek over her shoulder at the others. The old woman was leaning back in her chair, staring at the doors. The noble’s attendants sat with their hands folded as they casually eyed the room.
The noble was doing the oddest thing. He had a lock of sandycolored hair wound around a finger. He stroked his thumb over the lock of hair as he glared at the doors.
Abby wanted the wizard to hurry up and see her, but time stubbornly dragged by. In a way, she wished he would refuse. No, she told herself, that was unacceptable. No matter her fear, no matter her revulsion, she must do this. Abruptly, the door opened. The sorceress strode out toward Abby.
The noble surged to his feet. “I will see him first.” His voice was cold threat. “That is not a request.”
“It is our right to see him first,” Abby said without forethought. When the sorceress folded her hands, Abby decided she had best go on. “I’ve waited since dawn. This woman was the only one waiting before me. These men came at the last of the day.”
Abby started when the old woman’s gnarled fingers gripped her forearm. “Why don’t we let these men go first, dearie? It matters not who arrived first, but who has the most important business.”
Abby wanted to scream that her business was important, but she realized that the old woman might be saving her from serious trouble in accomplishing her business. Reluctantly, she gave the sorceress a nod. As the sorceress led the three men through the door, Abby could feel the old woman’s eyes on her back. Abby hugged the sack against the burning anxiety in her abdomen and told herself that it wouldn’t be long, and then she would see him.
As they waited, the old woman remained silent, and Abby was glad for that. Occasionally, she glanced at the door, imploring the good spirits to help her. But she realized it was futile; the good spirits wouldn’t be disposed to help her in this.
A roar came from the room beyond the doors. It was like the sound of an arrow zipping through the air, or a long switch whipping, but much louder, intensifying rapidly. It ended with a shrill crack accompanied by a flash of light coming under the doors and around their edges. The doors shuddered on their hinges.
Sudden silence rang in Abby’s ears. She found herself gripping the arms of the chair.
Both doors opened. The noble’s two attendants marched out, followed by the sorceress. The three stopped in the waiting room. Abby sucked a breath.
One of the two men was cradling the noble’s head in the crook of an arm. The wan features of the face were frozen in a mute scream. Thick strings of blood dripped onto the carpet.
“Show them out,” the sorceress hissed through gritted teeth to one of the two guards at the door.
The guard dipped his pike toward the stairs, ordering them ahead, and then followed the two men down. Crimson drops splattered onto the white marble of the steps as they descended. Abby sat in stiff, wide-eyed shock.
The sorceress wheeled back to Abby and the old woman.
The woman rose to her feet. “I believe that I would rather not bother the First Wizard today. I will return another day, if need be.”
She hunched lower toward Abby. “I am called Mariska.” Her brow drew down. “May the good spirits grant that you succeed.”
She shuffled to the stairs, rested a hand on the marble railing, and started down. The sorceress snapped her fingers and gestured. The remaining guard rushed to accompany the woman, as the sorceress turned back to Abby.
“The First Wizard will see you now.”
Abby gulped air, trying to get her breath as she lurched to her feet.
“What happened? Why did the First Wizard do that?”
“The man was sent on behalf of another to ask a question of the First Wizard. The First Wizard gave his answer.”
Abby clutched her sack to herself for dear life as she gaped at the blood on the floor. “Might that be the answer to my question, if I ask it?”
“I don’t know the question you would ask.” For the first time, the sorceress’s expression softened just a bit. “Would you like me to see you out? You could see another wizard or, perhaps, after you’ve given more thought to your petition, return another day, if you still wish it.”
Abby fought back te
ars of desperation. There was no choice. She shook her head. “I must see him.”
The sorceress let out a deep breath. “Very well.” She put a hand under Abby’s arm as if to keep her on her feet. “The First Wizard will see you now.”
Abby hugged the contents of her sack as she was led into the chamber where waited the First Wizard. Torches in iron sconces were not yet burning. The late-afternoon light from the glassed roof windows was still strong enough to illuminate the room. It smelled of pitch, lamp oil, roasted meat, wet stone, and stale sweat.
Inside, confusion and commotion reigned. There were people everywhere, and they all seemed to be talking at once. Stout tables set about the room in no discernible pattern were covered with books, scrolls, maps, chalk, unlit oil lamps, burning candles, partially eaten meals, sealing wax, pens, and a clutter of every sort of odd object, from balls of knotted string to half-spilled sacks of sand. People stood about the tables, engaged in conversations or arguments, as others tapped passages in books, pored over scrolls, or moved little painted weights about on maps. Others rolled slices of roasted meat plucked from platters and nibbled as they watched or offered opinions between swallows.
The sorceress, still holding Abby under her arm, leaned closer as they proceeded. “You will have the First Wizard’s divided attention. There will be other people talking to him at the same time. Don’t be distracted. He will be listening to you as he also listens to or talks to others. Just ignore the others who are speaking and ask what you have come to ask. He will hear you.”
Abby was dumbfounded. “While he’s talking to other people?”
“Yes.” Abby felt the hand squeeze her arm ever so slightly. “Try to be calm, and not to judge by what has come before you.”
The killing. That was what she meant. That a man had come to speak to the First Wizard, and he had been killed for it. She was simply supposed to put that from her thoughts? When she glanced down, she saw that she was walking through a trail of blood. She didn’t see the headless body anywhere.
Her bracelet tingled and she looked down at it. The hand under her arm halted her. When Abby looked up, she saw a confusing knot of people before her. Some rushed in from the sides as others rushed away. Some flailed their arms as they spoke with great conviction. So many were talking that Abby could scarcely understand a word of it. At the same time, others were leaning in, nearly whispering. She felt as if she were confronting a human beehive.
Abby’s attention was snagged by a form in white to the side. The instant she saw the long fall of hair and the violet eyes looking right at her, Abby went rigid. A small cry escaped her throat as she fell to her knees and bowed over until her back protested. She trembled and shuddered, fearing the worst.
In the instant before she dropped to her knees, she had seen that the elegant, satiny white dress was cut square at the neck, the same as the black dresses had been. The long flag of hair was unmistakable. Abby had never seen the woman before, but without doubt knew who she was. There could be no mistaking this woman. Only one of them wore the white dress.
It was the Mother Confessor herself.
She heard muttering above her, but feared to listen, lest it was death being summoned.
“Rise, my child,” came a clear voice.
Abby recognized it as the formal response of the Mother Confessor to one of her people. It took a moment for Abby to realize that it represented no threat, but simple acknowledgment. She stared at a smear of blood on the floor as she debated what to do next. Her mother had never instructed her as to how to conduct herself should she ever meet the Mother Confessor. As far as she knew, no one from Coney Crossing had ever seen the Mother Confessor, much less met her. Then again, none of them had ever seen a wizard, either.
Overhead, the sorceress whispered a growl. “Rise.”
Abby scrambled to her feet, but kept her eyes to the floor, even though the smear of blood was making her sick. She could smell it, like a fresh butchering of one of their animals. From the long trail, it looked as if the body had been dragged away to one of the doors in the back of the room.
The sorceress spoke calmly into the chaos. “Wizard Zorander, this is Abigail, born of Helsa. She wishes a word with you. Abigail, this is First Wizard Zeddicus Zu’l Zorander.”
Abby dared to cautiously lift her gaze. Hazel eyes gazed back.
To each side before her were knots of people: big, forbidding officers—some of them looked as if they might be generals; several old men in robes, some simple and some ornate; several middle-aged men, some in robes and some in livery; three women—sorceresses all; a variety of other men and women; and the Mother Confessor.
The man at the center of the turmoil, the man with the hazel eyes, was not what Abby had been expecting. She had expected some grizzled, gruff old man. This man was young—perhaps as young as she. Lean but sinewy, he wore the simplest of robes, hardly better made than Abby’s burlap sack—the mark of his high office.
Abby had not anticipated this sort of man in such an office as that of First Wizard. She remembered what her mother had told her—not to trust what your eyes told you where wizards were concerned.
All about, people spoke to him, argued at him, a few even shouted, but the wizard was silent as he looked into her eyes. His face was pleasing enough to look upon, gentle in appearance, even though his wavy brown hair looked ungovernable, but his eyes … Abby had never seen the likes of those eyes. They seemed to see all, to know all, to understand all. At the same time they were bloodshot and wearylooking, as if sleep eluded him. They had, too, the slightest glaze of distress. Even so, he was calm at the center of the storm. For that moment that his attention was on her, it was as if no one else were in the room.
The lock of hair Abby had seen around the noble’s finger was now held wrapped around the First Wizard’s finger. He brushed it to his lips before lowering his arm.
“I am told you are the daughter of a sorceress.” His voice was placid water flowing through the tumult raging all about. “Are you gifted, child?”
“No, sir …”
Even as she answered, he was turning to another who had just finished speaking. “I told you, if you do, we chance losing them. Send word that I want him to cut south.”
The tall officer to whom the wizard spoke threw his hands up. “But he said they’ve reliable scouting information that the D’Harans went east on him.”
“That’s not the point,” the wizard said. “I want that pass to the south sealed. That’s where their main force went; they have gifted among them. They are the ones we must kill.”
The tall officer was saluting with a fist to his heart as the wizard turned to an old sorceress. “Yes, that’s right, three invocations before attempting the transposition. I found the reference last night.”
The old sorceress departed to be replaced by a man jabbering in a foreign tongue as he opened a scroll and held it up for the wizard to see. The wizard squinted toward it, reading a moment before waving the man away, while giving orders in the same foreign language.
The wizard turned to Abby. “You’re a skip?”
Abby felt her face heat and her ears burn. “Yes, Wizard Zorander.”
“Nothing to be ashamed of, child,” he said while the Mother Confessor herself was whispering confidentially in his ear.
But it was something to be ashamed of. The gift hadn’t passed on to her from her mother—it had skipped her.
The people of Coney Crossing had depended on Abby’s mother. She helped with those who were ill or hurt. She advised people on matters of community and those of family. For some she arranged marriages. For some she meted out discipline. For some she bestowed favors available only through magic. She was a sorceress; she protected the people of Coney Crossing.
She was revered openly. By some, she was feared and loathed privately.
She was revered for the good she did for the people of Coney Crossing. By some, she had been feared and loathed because she had the gift——because
she wielded magic. Others wanted nothing so much as to live their lives without any magic about.
Abby had no magic and couldn’t help with illness or injury or shapeless fears. She dearly wished she could, but she couldn’t. When Abby had asked her mother why she would abide all the thankless resentment, her mother told her that helping was its own reward and you should not expect gratitude for it. She said that if you went through life expecting gratitude for the help you provided, you might end up leading a miserable life.
When her mother was alive, Abby had been shunned in subtle ways; after her mother died, the shunning became more overt. It had been expected by the people of Coney Crossing that she would serve as her mother had served. People didn’t understand about the gift, how it often wasn’t passed on to an offspring; instead they thought Abby selfish.
The wizard was explaining something to a sorceress about the casting of a spell. When he finished, his gaze swept past Abby on its way to someone else. She needed his help, now.
“What is it you wanted to ask me, Abigail?”
Abby’s fingers tightened on the sack. “It’s about my home of Coney Crossing.” She paused while the wizard pointed in a book being held out to him. He rolled his hand at her, gesturing for her to go on as a man was explaining an intricacy to do with inverting a duplex spell. “There’s terrible trouble there,” Abby said. “D’Haran troops came through the Crossing …”
The First Wizard turned to an older man with a long white beard. By his simple robes, Abby guessed him to be a wizard, too.
“I’m telling you, Thomas, it can be done,” Wizard Zorander insisted. “I’m not saying I agree with the council, I’m just telling you what I found and their unanimous decision that it be done. I’m not claiming to understand the details of just how it works, but I’ve studied it; it can be done. As I told the council, I can activate it. I have yet to decide if I agree with them that I should.”
Legends: Stories By The Masters of Modern Fantasy Page 15