EXILED Wizard of Tizare Page 2

  In his dark room, Cwynid’s lips quivered, enjoying the perverse pleasure as Talwe struggled to mount the young beauty.

  And there will be others, Cwynid thought, others to catch the attention of King Talwe, while I remain a friendly confidant, friend of the court ... until the very throne itself becomes mine.

  Day after day, Cwynid would grow closer to the king, while at night he would whittle at the fraying strands of Talwe’s character, hacking into his very spirit, until the king was ready to give himself over to Wydnic’s wise leadership.

  And then ...

  Cwynid smiled in the dark.

  Ar and its king would be presented to the Eastern Lords for retribution.

  And, for the moment, the great magic user felt no danger.

  •

  Mithmid woke up from his troubled sleep. The hall outside still echoed with the waves of celebrants stumbling from one part of the castle to the other.

  No matter, he thought. Before dawn the last of the wine would have been consumed and the food platters would be empty. The harsh light of morning had a way of chasing away even the most persistent and obnoxious guest.

  Mithmid turned over, grinding his sleepy head into the fluffy down pillow.

  But his eyes blinked open.

  Like a cold breeze wafting through a window, he sensed something awry. He sat up and concentrated. A flood of sensations came: the squeals and mewlings of lovers (or strangers), the heavy snores of guests collapsed in dim corridors, the sounds of fights, nasty battles over nothing, all fueled by too much wine.

  In the midst of it all—what?

  Danger?

  Or just the endless waves of so many mrem prowling around at night?

  He lay there a moment and then, when the feeling faded, he shrugged and lay down again.

  •

  Paralan had to wait for Talwe to wake up.

  By the time the king took breakfast the castle had been scrubbed clean, from the lowest storerooms to the upper parapets, The guards were in their assigned positions and some semblance of normalcy and routine had returned.

  Paralan strolled back and forth, waiting outside Talwe’s chambers, until finally a servant opened the large wooden doors.

  “Come in, Paralan,” he heard Talwe call out to him. “We can talk while I have some breakfast.”

  Paralan walked in and found Talwe sitting up in bed—alone. There were platters of fruit, nuts; and sweet cakes, still steaming and warm from the castle kitchen.

  “Please, sit. And help yourself. There’s no way I’ll be able to eat all this food.”

  “You’re feeling all right?” Paralan asked, sitting down on a corner of the bed.

  “All right? Oh, last night. Well, I have felt better. Still, it was a grand celebration. Ambassador Wydnic was extremely impressed.”

  “Talwe, I don’t have very good feelings about that mrem.” Paralan saw Talwe look up at him. Then Talwe spoke, his voice cold and distant.

  “There is much his king can do for us, Paralan. Not everyone lives like this,” he said, gesturing at the room and the food. “You and I, of all people, should know that. If I can improve trade in Ar, make it easier for the mrem who live here, then I’ll do it.”

  Paralan stood up. “I don’t know, Talwe. It’s a feeling. I don’t trust him. What would Sruss say of all this?”

  Talwe noisily bit into an oversize pompa berry, its purplish juice dripping down his chin. He dabbed at his fur, then rubbed his whiskers.

  “Sruss is not here, Paralan,” Talwe said quietly.

  “Talwe ... last night ... when I was called to Feila’s chambers ...”

  Without looking up Talwe took another bite of the fruit, letting Paralan hang there.

  “She asked me to intercede with you. She is worried, about herself ... about her child.”

  Paralan watched Talwe clear his food away and stand up. “It is all taken care of, Lord Paralan. In fact, I was going to summon you myself today.”

  “Summon, Talwe? I thought that you merely had to ask me to see you. Am I to be summoned now?”

  Talwe grinned, and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  “Yes,” he laughed lightly, “I am forgetting who I’m talking to. But—” Talwe turned more serious “—it was about Feila. I’ve arranged for her to be adopted by the King of Pleir.”

  Paralan shook his head. “Adopted? And Pleir! Why that’s nothing more than an overgrown Northern village, a barbaric outpost.”

  “As was Ar at one point, my friend. Pleir’s King Yarrou has agreed. And that is what I am going to do with this troublesome vixen,” he hissed.

  “And what of your kit?”

  Talwe glared at Paralan, more and more irritated by the discussion. “Feila’s kit will be taken care of by Yarrou. That will be no problem.”

  Now Paralan came close to Talwe. How could his friend be so dense? “It’s your heir, Talwe. Your heir.”

  But Talwe shook his head. He shed his’ rich sleeping garment, and pulled on a deep blue cape. Then he strapped on his sword, the same sword he had used at Cragsclaw.

  He had promised, Paralan knew, that the sword would always be with him. To remind him of the need for constant vigilance. The East never rests, he had told Paralan.

  Now it seemed to Paralan to be nothing more than a hollow gesture.

  “It is not Sruss’s kit. Unless I accept Feila, the kit cannot be an heir.” Talwe paused. “And I will not accept her. In fact, I want you to escort Feila to Pleir. You may stay with her to ensure that she is well provided for. I don’t expect,” Talwe said, raising an eyebrow, “that there will be much for you to do here. At least for a while.”

  Paralan shook his head. “But Talwe—”

  The servant came back into the room.

  “Ambassador Wydnic is here, Your Highness,” she announced.

  “Oh,” Talwe said eagerly, turning away from Paralan. “Show him in right away.”

  Paralan hurried to Talwe’s side. “Why are you doing this? The kit is yours!”

  Talwe shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. I’m not ready for an heir. And I certainly wouldn’t choose a kitchen helper to be the mother of the next—”

  “And since when is your background so fabulously royal!”

  Wydnic entered the room, his face going wide with exaggerated embarrassment. “Oh, is this a bad time, my lords? Perhaps I should—”

  But Talwe shook his head. “No, Wydnic. My counselor here was about to leave. I expect you to leave today, Paralan.”

  Paralan stood there.

  Time changes things, he thought.

  There was a time when Talwe wouldn’t urinate in an alleyway without mentioning it to his good friend and lieutenant. Now, he thought, I’m just another “loyal servant” to King Talwe.

  “Yes,” Paralan said grimly, “I’ll take Feila. But only because I wouldn’t trust anyone else in your court to do the job. But when I come back, my king,” he said coming right up to Talwe’s face, “then we will talk some more. This,” he gestured at Wydnic, “is not what I fought for.”

  Talwe’s angry expression matched Paralan’s. “Go then,” he said quietly.

  Paralan turned and walked past the ambassador, forcing him to step aside.

  “Oh, excuse me,” the ambassador said, turning and watching Paralan leave.

  And Paralan’s nostrils flared as he passed, sniffing as he continued out of the room, walking to Feila’s chambers ....

  Almost as if he smelled something familiar ... disturbing.

  And dangerous.

  MITHMID sat in his chair in the empty chambers of the Council of The Three. He waited there, in the darkness, trying, over and over, to understand just what it was that disturbed him so.

  He heard the heavy door open just behind him, and Eronica, dressed in the
silvery flowering cloth that he favored, hurried to him. Eronica, not known to favor such early morning meetings, sat down grumpily.

  “Well, Mithmid, what is it that has you so upset on this bright morning?”

  Mithmid shifted uneasily in his seat. How could he explain such a vague malaise, an odd disturbance that left no clue to its source?

  “It’s Talwe. I have been worried....”

  Eronica nodded. “And well you should be. If he doesn’t spend more time on affairs of state rather than affairs of the heart, well, Ar won’t enjoy the fruits of its victory for long.”

  But Mithmid shook his head. “No ... Talwe was always like that ... but he was always able to respond to danger quickly. There is something else at work here, something—”

  “Magical?” Eronica added.

  Mithmid nodded.

  “But,” Eronica said, extending his hands, “I feel nothing. The city is free of any magic.”

  Mithmid stood up, pacing the dull council room. “But that is exactly it. I have only the vaguest of feelings that something is not quite right, but when I probe the king and those around him, there is nothing ... nothing at all.”

  Now Eronica stood up, eager to conclude this clearly unnecessary meeting. “So there, you see. There is nothing awry in Ar. But,” the older council member said, putting an arm around Mithmid, “I have a thought. Perhaps you are getting some disturbing feelings from someone close to Talwe.”

  Mithmid turned and gave Eronica a confused look. “You see, our king’s consort, Sruss, has been gone for quite a while. And she will be gone longer still, supervising the workers rebuilding Cragsclaw. Maybe this warning comes from there, from Cragsclaw.”

  Mithmid shook his head. “I don’t—”

  “Why not go there, Mithmid? Visit Sruss, and see how she fares. If all seems well, return here. I’ll keep a close watch on Talwe.”

  And Mithmid slowly nodded, agreeing to the plan. But not believing that it was Sruss who was in danger ...

  •

  Paralan made quick work of telling the terrible news to Feila, ignoring her tears as he stuffed her possessions into two small satchels. And when he didn’t stop packing, she beat him, yelling and screaming terribly.

  And he let her do it, let her cry out her anger. “There’s nothing that can be done,” he repeated gently.

  “You will be safe and provided for. And so will your kit.”

  And, Paralan thought, I’m just the good lieutenant, carrying out my king’s wishes ... no matter how stupid and ill-thought they might be.

  So it was that, armed with grain-cakes and water for the journey, Paralan led the distraught Feila out of the castle to the northern gates and out of the city of Ar.

  Look! he wanted to tell her. See the great market place with its cages of clucking patter fowl ready to be bought for some tangy stew. Look at the great piles of young songomore leaves, harvested for their spicy flavor. Look at the great chunks of arbunda hanging from the butcher’s metal hooks.

  Look at them, because who knows when you’ll see their like again.

  He knew that such delicacies were rare in the Northern villages. Such things might be seen at festival time, and even then only in the richest households.

  But Feila looked at none of it. She walked beside Paralan, leaning into him, her tiny body arousing his every instinct for protection. She closed her eyes, trusting Paralan to lead her safely to the road, and her hated destiny.

  At first, when they started the gradual climb to the low-lying hills that sat at Ar’s northern border, Paralan kept up a steady stream of chatter. The North was different, he breezily assured her. She would surely find someone to be with, someone who would appreciate her beauty. And it was a healthier place, with clear bracing air, laced with the snow and spring flowers of the mountains.

  But then she spoke. “Please,” she said. “I want to just walk there ... quietly.”

  Paralan nodded. He pulled her close, and busied himself watching the tough lowland grass gradually give way to the lush trees and bushes of the highlands.

  Each time they stopped to rest—which was often—Paralan tried to get Feila to eat. But she shook her head, taking only a few sips of water before telling him that she was ready to move on.

  The first night he found a quiet glade by a small stream. Though it was still warm, Paralan unrolled two heavy blankets. When Feila curled up by a rock and once again refused to eat, Paralan decided to do something about it.

  He walked over to her, crouched, and touched her shoulder. “You must eat,” he commanded.

  She shook her head, keeping her eyes closed.

  Paralan poked at her again. “You must eat ... if not for your own scrawny, underfed body, then at least for the kit growing inside you.”

  And now her eyes opened wide.

  “And what of the kit,” she hissed. “He’s been denied by his father. What does it matter what happens to him?” She sat up, spitting out her words. “If he were to be born now, I would take him and toss him into the stream. It wouldn’t matter at all.”

  “Him?” Paralan said softly. “You know?”

  She nodded. “Yes. It’s a male.”

  “By the All-Mother,” Paralan said, standing up. “By the blessed All-Mother, what is wrong with Talwe? This,” he said gesturing to her still-flat midsection, “is his heir.”

  “It’s because of Sruss,” Feila said quietly.

  “Eh?”

  “Sruss wants to give him his heir. If she doesn’t, then no one shall.”

  “I should have guessed as much.” Paralan knew that Sruss, as brave as any at Cragsclaw, tolerated Talwe and his endless procession of desirable vixens.

  But there were some things that could not be allowed.

  Paralan came back to her, resting his large hand right on Feila’s fur, rubbing right near her teats. “A son,” he whispered, expressing no surprise at Feila’s beast magic. He had suspected as much.

  And, he wondered, what will be your destiny, oh unlucky kit, in the great lands to the north?

  •

  Paralan woke to the sound of Feila’s screaming.

  “What?” he said groggily, jumping up. He unsheathed his sword and ran over to the spot where, she had been sleeping. But she wasn’t there.

  “Feila!” he bellowed.

  He heard her mewling, coming from the stream.

  “What is it?” he yelled, running over. “What’s wrong?”

  She was standing at the edge of the stream, her kilt off. He had no time to appreciate her beauty before seeing what had terrified her.

  He started to laugh. “Oh, ho, yes, watch out for that. Best be careful. You don’t want that taking any bites out of you.”

  “Wha—what is it?”

  “It’s a river skud,” Paralan said, still laughing. “Perfectly harmless.”

  He knew that the skud, which looked almost like a tiny liskash, was a fierce-looking creature. It was ugly, with a beaked mouth that looked like it could rip a nasty chunk out of your pelt. But in truth Paralan knew it only gnawed at the stringy plants that grew along the edges of rivers and streams.

  Still, most mrem didn’t miss the opportunity to quickly dispatch them. They were just too reminiscent of the dreaded armies of the Eastern Lords.

  “Here,” he said, still chuckling, “allow me.”

  He brought his sword down quickly on the slimy skud. He sliced it in half, and the bang of his sword echoed in the lush glade.

  Feila ran to him. She pressed close. “I’ve never seen one. I’ve lived my entire life in Ar. I was so scared.”

  “There,” he said. “It’s all over now.”

  The laughter left his voice as she rested against him, her slim body pressed tightly, her soft fur so close to his own natty pelt. He felt himself stirring.

  He
gently pushed her away.

  “There. Everything’s fine,” he said brusquely, masking his embarrassment.

  She looked up at him. “Thank you.”

  “Yes. And we’d best be on our way.”

  Feila nodded sadly, and began to roll up their sleeping blankets. And then, when they started walking on the trail again, he saw Feila dig into one of the packs and extract a large chunk of grain-cake.

  At least, Paralan thought with relief, watching her chew noisily on the cake as they climbed the low hills, she was eating. She even started talking a bit, telling him of her father, a tinsmith, and her mother, who died when she was still a kit.

  “I was left pretty much on my own,” she said proudly, “I was so happy when I got to work in the castle.”

  Paralan arched an eyebrow. “Talwe always has an eye out for new talent. And his staff has been well trained in his preferences.”

  The mention of Talwe’s name made her grow quiet again.

  “I ... I didn’t know what to think. It was all so exciting.”

  “Yes. Well, you can see where it’s gotten you now.”

  She laughed. “Climbing a hill with a mighty skud-killer.”

  And Paralan laughed also, enjoying the wonderful sound of her laughter. If Pleir was a good place, and King Yarrou a good mrem, why, Feila would do just fine.

  And if not, Paralan thought, I will be there....

  •

  The hills gave way to rough, rocky land dotted with spiky bushes and the stunted, almost skeletal agora trees.

  The easy part of their journey was over, Paralan thought. Their marching would take them up to higher and higher ground, until they reached the first mountains of the great Northern range that girded the Southern Kingdoms. He had heard stories of mrem who went beyond the Northern villages, past the icy mountains, to the great plateau at the top of their world.

  Every kit grew up with the myths and tales of the ice folk, and their mysterious towns and tunnels dug right into the ice. Not a harvest season went by that some enterprising showmrem didn’t appear in Ar with what he claimed were genuine artifacts of the ice folk. Once, one pudgy mrem had shown up with a kit, its fur a shiny gray.