EXILED Wizard of Tizare Page 5

  Feila shook her head. “I did not free you to go to Ar. Soon the guards will discover Yarrou’s body—”

  “His body—”

  “On top of his bed, hacked into pieces. The guards are used to his sleeping. But soon they won’t be put off. And then, they will not stop until they find me.”

  “But we can—”

  “No, they will find me, and kill me. They will do the same to you if you are with me.” She opened the door, leading to a dark, drafty hallway. “But they won’t find my kit ... because hell be with you.”

  Paralan looked down.

  The kit was inside a satchel, resting in a small basket.

  The kit’s head stuck out and its twin eyes glowed like tiny candles. Paralan stepped close to the satchel and peeled away a bit of material near the kit’s throat. It licked Paralan’s hand.

  “He has his father’s markings,” he said quietly.

  Feila crouched down next to Paralan. “And his father’s temperament, too. It’s all I can do to keep him in one place.”

  “I will take him to Ar,” Paralan said, standing up.

  “Surely when Talwe sees—”

  “No. In Ar he would be killed. Talwe must never know where his son is.” She came close to Paralan. They both heard the sound of the prisoners, screaming and squealing with joy. “Take my kit to a small village. Find someone who will care for him. But don’t tell them who he is.”

  Paralan turned away. “But I should be in Ar. I should—”

  “Talwe asked you to see me to safety, to see his kit to safety. If you don’t take him away from here, he will be killed.”

  There was a clatter from somewhere in the castle.

  “I know a passage out of the city. And there’s food inside the satchel, enough for four or five days of travel.”

  She reached up to Paralan and he felt her cool hands on his cheek. “You will do this?”

  The kit made a small sound, as if eager to be away. Paralan leaned forward and kissed Feila.

  The door to the dungeon burst open, and the prisoners streamed out.

  “Come with me, then,” Paralan said. “I can just as easily bring you—”

  “No. Whatever trail you leave would be followed—if they thought I was with you. No, I will try to get away by going south. But I will not endanger my kit.”

  She picked up the noisy little mrem, holding it up to Paralan. The satchel fit like a pack on Paralan’s shoulders.

  Prisoners, wild-eyed, grinning crazily, rushed past them, desperate to be free.

  “There,” she said, sure that the satchel was well fastened to his back. “Come, I will show you the way out. There can’t be much time before there are soldiers everywhere in the castle.”

  And she led him through a twisted trail of corridors and doorways, then out onto the streets of Pleir, past abandoned buildings and dark side streets, until they carne to a small building near the northern wall of the city.

  “There’s a tunnel. It leads to a rocky outcrop just past the wall. Keep heading north and you’ll come to an old trail used by herd tenders. Now go!”

  He looked at her one more time. She wouldn’t look at the kit.

  He kissed her, tasting her silent tears on his lips.

  “Go!” she ordered.

  And Paralan turned and fled the nightmare city of Pleir. While every step he took brought him further and further away from Ar.

  •

  He didn’t even stop at the first village.

  The females were cowed as they scurried about, carrying heavy jugs of water to the small wooden huts. The males wore kilts fashioned of the rough pelts of Rar, and one of the mrem was wearing what had to be the tanned skin of a liskash.

  They eyed Paralan as if eager to relieve him of any of his possessions. But Paralan had gained back much of his lost strength. He walked with strong, purposeful steps. And the mrem let him pass unmolested.

  Still moving north, right to the foothills of the Great Northern Mountains, he came to another village. But the villagers wore their poverty like a sad badge, and a few of the older kits came up to beg from the stranger.

  Still, Paralan pushed on, pausing to give the kit some arbunda milk from a gourd or a slice of dried and salted meat.

  The sloppy noise of the kit’s mouth, merrily chewing away in Paralan’s ears, made him smile. The kit seemed so carefree and happy, untouched by the danger that surrounded him.

  And then he came to another village. It was filled with neatly kept huts, rows of them, all with their small chimneys puffing out lines of grayish-white smoke. And beyond the village, filling the nearby hills, was a great herd of arbunda.

  A herd that would be any village’s treasure. It was a prosperous village, wealthy.

  Paralan unstrapped the satchel and swung the kit around.

  A few of the mrem came up to him cautiously. An old mrem, with long reddish fur, spoke.

  “Greetings, traveler. You look as if you and your ... companion have come a long way.”

  Paralan smiled. “Yes, I have come a long way. And I’ve further to go.” The village she-mrem came near, peering at the kit, then touching the twin points of its ears, smoothing the soft fur. “But I hope that this kit may have come to the end of its journey ....”

  One of the she-mrem pulled Feila’s kit out of the satchel, holding it up naked, in the cold clear light of the mountain morning. She held it up, and then brought it close, as it rooted around, smelling the milk of her teats.

  And Paralan knew that at least the kit had found a home.

  A place to grow.

  Perhaps one day to tend the great herd browsing on the mountain meadow.

  And, Paralan thought, who knew what else?

  •

  Cwynid looked in Talwe’s bedroom.

  There is the king! he thought.

  Curled up on his massive bed, wrapped ill a sweaty tangle of silken sheets and young bodies.

  It would be so easy to walk over and cut the mrem’s throat. So easy ...

  And so unnecessary. The city and throne of Ar were ready to fall into his hands. Already he controlled the palace army and a spy network that extended to cities to the North and South. Talwe’s trusted advisors were all gone, Paralan to the North, and Mithmid ordered to stay with Sruss at Cragsclaw.

  I am almost king, in all but name. All trade requires my consent, my approval. Foreign dignitaries seek conferences with me, ignoring Talwe. Every day more control and more power are in my hands.

  Cwynid shut Talwe’s door quietly. He walked slowly to the reception hall. Already there were twenty or thirty petitioners lined up for an audience, each with their special plea, their special request.

  Cwynid was growing tired of the charade.

  Soon he’d move to have Talwe enforce by law what already existed in fact. I will be named counselor!

  And then, Cwynid thought, a small smile playing across his lips, it will be my son’s chance. The Eastern Lords had told Cwynid that they approved his decision. His own son could be king.

  It would be years before they’d be ready to invade the Western kingdoms. When the time came, his son would be there.

  He grabbed the heavy silver doorknobs leading to the reception hall.

  At the click of the opening door, dozens of faces, eager and attentive, looked at him. Awaiting his attention ... his decisions ...

  So easy ... why should cities be fought over … when they could be seduced so easily?

  •

  It was a cave.

  Filled with strange smells and small chittering sounds that echoed from the darkness within.

  For all Feila knew, it might be hiding some Rar ready to rip her to pieces for lunch. But she had to stop, had to rest.

  She sat down on the damp cave floor, staring at the brilliant glow of the
cave’s mouth.

  Feila couldn’t believe that she had gotten this far. She had expected that Yarrou’s troops would make quick work of finding and killing her. They were hunters, murderers, trackers....

  By all rights she should be dead.

  Then she worried that they had taken off after Paralan, after Paralan and her nameless kit.

  She could see him now, his bright eyes, the brilliant color of his fur. The only thing she cared about was his safety.

  Yet, with each day she started to grow hopeful. Maybe she’d live, she dared hope. Maybe she could wander to the South, lose herself in some great city, and wait ... and wait ...

  Until it was safe to find Paralan, dear Paralan, and ask him—

  Where is my kit? ,

  She sat there, her breath slowly returning to normal. She sat, unaware that she was crying. The tears dropped onto the dirt. The light became all blurry.

  And then it darkened.

  Somebody was there.

  Voices!

  They paused at the entrance, and she found herself struggling to breathe quietly.

  It grew darker. .

  Her fingers dug into the hard dirt floor, grabbing at it. She heard the blades being pulled from their sheaths. “Whore!” one of Yarrou’s soldiers yelled, swinging his blade.

  Feila closed her eyes. And thought of Paralan ...

  •

  Paralan had entered Ar in the middle of the night. The first surprise was the difficulty he had in passing through the gates.

  But he made up some story of a sick, dying sister, and the weary guards waved him in.

  He kept his cape pulled tight, not wanting anyone to recognize him.

  The city looked different. Soldiers marched through the streets with an angry clatter. On a warm night such as this, the streets of Ar should be filled with mrem walking around, enjoying the steamy heat, with a bottle of sweet wine in one hand and a grain-cake in the other.

  But there was an almost funereal pall over the city.

  He passed the courtyard, usually home to assorted dancing troupes. It was deserted except for a lone guard standing at the far end.

  Paralan hurried to pass him.

  “Halt!” the guard yelled.

  Paralan stopped and turned, and light from the twin crescents of the moons outlined his face.

  “Where are you going?” the guard demanded.

  Paralan tried to keep his face down.

  “My sister, she is very sick. I am visiting her for perhaps the last time.”

  The guard nodded.

  “You should be off the streets. Curfew. Wydnic’s order.”

  Paralan nodded. Wydnic’s order!

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “I will be there very soon.”

  The guard grunted, and signaled to Paralan to move on.

  Now he knew that it would be foolish to go directly to the palace. More than likely he’d be cut down before he got within sight of Talwe. No, he’d need help.

  And he knew where to look for some.

  He hurried across the courtyard, and then hurried up one of the nameless twisting alleyways that crisscrossed Ar. Perhaps, he wondered, it would be closed—or, even worse, gone!

  But he saw the light, a warm yellow glow that spilled out onto the dank alley. The Inn of the Black Moon was open.

  Even a curfew couldn’t keep it closed!

  Paralan guessed that too many of Talwe’s friends had asked for it to be spared.

  If he was to find any allies, it would be in here.

  He pushed open the heavy wood doors, and the raucous sound and smoke spilled out. Paralan pulled his cape tighter and entered.

  Glancing left and right, he checked that no one was taking undue notice of his entrance. Then he walked up to the bar, squeezing beside two striped mrem, both with the distinctive markings of the clansmrem from the Southern islands. He ordered a dark ale, and retreated quietly to a corner bench.

  Now, crouching down, he could search the inn for someone who might help him. At first all he saw was the usual bunch of drunken and rowdy citizens. It was too late to expect anyone from the palace to be here. No Jremm, no Arklier—where were they, all the nobles and friends?

  Then, against the far wall, he saw Ondra. Paralan took a sip of the ale and watched Ondra.

  He had obviously had more than enough to drink. He was saying good-bye, clapping his compatriots on the back, turning this way and that.

  Ondra! Young, impetuous, but there was no one more brave or loyal to Talwe.

  He was leaving. Paralan watched him maneuver between the islands of tables, tipping this way and that, laughing good-naturedly ... a ship without a rudder. Finally, he reached the door and walked out.

  Paralan stood up quickly, and followed him. For the moment, he didn’t worry whether anyone saw him rushing to leave the inn.

  Paralan went out the door and panicked. Where was Ondra? A left or a right turn branched out into countless other alleyways, each capable of swallowing up a lone drunk in seconds.

  Paralan froze. He heard something.

  The sound of someone relieving himself, and then a voice singing, too loudly ...

  “There was a dancer with claws shaped like knives ... and when she caressed you, it was like having three wives ....”

  Ondra! Paralan ran in the direction of the sound and found Ondra careening down the alleyway, bumping into one wall, and then the next, refusing to allow it to interrupt his song.

  “There was a vixen named Tam and—”

  “Ondra ...” Paralan said quietly.

  Ondra stopped, shook his head as though he were hearing things, and then started in again. “And when she took her kilt off she—”

  “Ondra!” Paralan said, louder this time. He walked behind the drunken mrem and touched his shoulder.

  “Huh,” Ondra said, turning. “What?”

  Paralan knew that his face was in the shadows. “Ondra ... it’s me ... Paralan.”

  “Excuse me, guard. I know about the curfew. I’ve just been trying to—”

  Paralan grabbed Ondra roughly by the shoulders and shook him. “Ondra, it’s me. It’s Paralan. Listen to me!”

  Ondra blinked, shook his head. “Para ... Paralan ...” he said quietly. “I didn’t ... I—”

  Ondra collapsed against him, mumbling, “Paralan, I thought, we all thought that you were gone.” He looked up, becoming more sober with every word he spoke. “Oh, Paralan, so much has happened here, so much evil—”

  “That’s why I’m here, Ondra. And we’re going to fix it, you and I. But first, let’s get you home and see if we can walk some of that ale and wine out of you. And then, you can tell me what happened. ...”

  •

  Ondra poured Paralan and himself another cup of the now-tepid green tea. Paralan had forced the young mrem to duck his head into a pail of water, which he did only when Paralan pushed him down with his hand. That, and the cups of tea, made Ondra as clear-eyed as one might hope after a night at the Inn of the Black Moon.

  “First he sent Sruss away,” Ondra said between sips, “to supervise the completion of the reconstruction of Cragsclaw. He just seemed to sort of lose touch, get lost in himself. Next, Wydnic became his only advisor, his only confidant. Then, Talwe stopped showing up at official functions. Wydnic was acting as his counselor—with full power to act in Talwe’s name.”

  Paralan shook his head. “But why did Talwe do that? Didn’t any of you try talking to him?”

  “Of course, but it did no good. No one was as close to him as you were. When he sent you away with Feila, a feeling of hopelessness fell on all of us.”

  Paralan stood up and walked to the small window near the door of Ondra’s room. Already the sky was losing its inky black color. He turned back to Ondra.

  “So you’ve
done nothing?”

  “No. We supported Sruss, stood by her when she tried to return. But Wydnic was always there, whispering in Talwe’s ear, a squad of his best soldiers behind him. Talwe dismissed Sruss without blinking an eye. And Wydnic warned us. We could stay—but only if we vowed to follow any edict, whether from Talwe or his new ‘counselor.’ ”

  “And everyone took the oath?”

  “No,” Ondra said sadly. “Arklier left with Sruss. Reswen disappeared.” He looked up at Paralan and smiled. “Me, I’ve staked out my claim to a corner table at the Inn of the Black Moon. I’ve been allowed to melt into the floorboards there.”

  Paralan brought his fist down on the table.

  “I can’t believe it. We fought for this city, mrem died for it, and this wizard has been able to come and steal it away—”

  “Wizard? What do you mean, wizard?”

  Paralan spit out the words. “This ambassador, this Wydnic, is a lackey of the Eastern Lords. He is Cwynid. And you let him take the city.”

  Ondra stood up, his face wide with horror. “But how do you know this—”

  Paralan held up his hand, and Ondra slumped back in his chair. He knew the truth of it, Paralan realized, the moment he had heard the words.

  “But what could we do?” Ondra moaned, “There was nothing—”

  Paralan grabbed Ondra and pulled him to his feet. “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do, my friend. We’re going to rid this city of that lackey of the Eastern Lords. You and I.”

  Paralan walked over to the door. He opened it and a sweet morning breeze filled the room. “And,” he said quietly, “we’re going to do it today ....”

  PARALAN let Ondra lead him to the palace.

  “It’s almost impossible to get to Talwe anymore. The last time I tried to see him I ended up herded with the rest of the good citizens, you know, the ones asking for favors and extensions on their taxes.”