Beyond the High Road

12

The royal wizard woke bound and naked, covered by a single blood-stained linen, surrounded by enemies of the realm. To the right stood Owden Foley, a clammy cold cloth in one hand and a brass basin in the other. Alaphondar Emmarask and Merula the Marvelous watched from the foot of the bed, eyes beady and observant, alert as always for any sign that the royal magician knew their thoughts. He did of course, but he could not let them see it. They would kill him on the spot.

To the wizard’s left stood Azoun IV, his arm hanging in a sling and his shoulder wrapped in a bloody bandage. Good. Vangerdahast had done some damage after all, even if he did not recall when or how… or why.

Vangerdahast’s head ached from the bridge of his nose to the nape of his neck. His thoughts came slowly and for only short periods. His scalp felt crusty and swollen and strangely taut, with long stripes of hot pain crossing it from right to left. His body ached with fever. He was hungry enough to eat a cat, though of course he knew better than to ask for one. He refused to give his captors the pleasure of seeing him beg.

Owden, of course, was the torturer. The priest’s implements lay on the table beside the bed, arrayed in neat rows of knives and needles and coarse loops of thread. Knowing they had only left the instruments in the open to frighten him, Vangerdahast looked away. Had his hands not been bound to the bed frame, he would have grabbed one of those knives and shown the traitors the error of their ways. Then again, had his hands been untied, he would not have needed a knife. He was, after all, a wizard.

If only he could remember his spells.

While most spells required gestures and special components and the uttering of mystic syllables, some required only an incantation. They would be ready for that. The enemies of the realm were as cunning as they were pervasive. If Vangerdahast wanted to escape and save the crown, he needed to be as clever as they were. He raised his head and glared at Merula.

“Help me, and I will forgive you this treason,” he said. “Use your magic against them, and I will pardon you when the crown is mine!”

Merula’s face paled, and he looked to Owden.

Owden looked to Azoun. “Forgive him, Majesty. It is the wound madness. You yourself raved on and on about how the Ladies Rowanmantle and Hawklin were jealous of the sons of your other-“

“Yes, yes!” Azoun’s hand shot up to silence the priest. “I am quite familiar with the insane thoughts caused by the creature’s wounds.”

“Insane thoughts? The insanity is this.” Vangerdahast strained to raise his left arm. “Unbind me, and I grant you safe passage to exile in a foreign land.”

Azoun scowled at Owden. “I hope this madness can be cleared up soon.” He looked back to Vangerdahast and grasped his arm, then said, “Old friend, I know your thoughts are muddled, but you must try to answer me. What happened to my daughter? Is the princess safe?”

Somewhere deep down beneath the madness, Vangerdahast felt a guilty pang. “Tanalasta?”

Azoun nodded. “Yes. Princess Tanalasta. She didn’t return with you.”

The battle in the canyon came flooding back to Vangerdahast-and with it a surge of anger.

“She defied me!” Vangerdahast’s temples pounded with hot anguish. “The brazen harlot!”

“Harlot?” Azoun repeated. “Then she’s with this Cormaeril fellow?”

“Spoiled now!” Vangerdahast spat. “He’s spoiled her now.”

“But is she safe?”

Vangerdahast tried to sit up and managed only to lift his head off the pillow before the restraints jerked him back down. He began to toss his head back and forth, trying in vain to shake loose the memory of some spell that would set him free. Azoun laid a palm on Vangerdahast’s brow and pressed down to hold the wizard’s head still.

“Don’t smother me!” Vangerdahast cried. “How can I tell if you smother me?”

Azoun eased up. “I’m not going to smother anyone.”

Vangerdahast laid very still and regarded the king suspiciously. “How do I know?”

“Vangerdahast, I would never hurt you.”

“Tell me you don’t want me out of the way.”

Azoun shook his head. “I don’t. You’re my most trusted advisor. My best friend. Please, try to remember. Tell me about Tanalasta.”

“Undo this.” Vangerdahast jerked against the binding on his left hand. “Just this one-then I’ll tell you.”

Azoun cast a querying glance at Owden.

The priest shook his head. “He wouldn’t tell you anyway, and it’s too dangerous. He could wipe us all out with one spell.”

“Don’t listen to the groundsplitter!” Vangerdahast’s head began to throb with the effort of finding some spell to help him escape. “He’s afraid of my power.”

“And rightly so,” said Owden.

Vangerdahast turned to glare at the priest. Owden’s hand came out of his pocket sprinkling yellow dust, but Vangerdahast was too quick for the priest and managed to shut his eyes.

“Do you know where you are, Vangerdahast?” asked Owden. “Do you remember what happened to your head?”

Vangerdahast did not open his eyes. “My head hurts. You did something to it.”

“Not me,” said Owden. “It was the thing that came back with you.”

“You!” Vangerdahast insisted.

“It slapped you in the head, then went after Azoun-“

“No!”

At last, the incantation of a blinding spell popped into Vangerdahast’s head. It would not free him, and it would only affect one person-but if he chose the right person, perhaps he could cause enough confusion to get at one of Owden’s torture knives on the table beside him.

Vangerdahast turned his head toward Azoun and began to repeat the incantation, then smelled something strident and saw Owden sprinkle some glittering droplets into his face. He squeaked out one more syllable, then the room went dark, and he was seized by a sudden sensation of falling.

Sometime much later, Vangerdahast woke bound and naked, covered by a single fresh linen, surrounded by the haggard-looking enemies of the state. To the right stood Owden Foley, a clammy cold cloth in one hand and a brass basin in the other. Alaphondar Emmarask and Merula the Marvelous watched from the foot of the bed, eyes beady and observant, alert as always for any sign that the royal magician knew their thoughts. He did of course, but he could not let them see it, or they would kill him on the spot.

To the wizard’s left stood Azoun IV, arm hanging in a sling and his shoulder wrapped in a fresh bandage.

Vangerdahast did not recall how he had come to be the prisoner of the realm’s enemies. He did not recall anything, save for a faint odor that faded from his memory even as he tried to hold onto it. The only thing that looked vaguely familiar were the log joists and rough hewn planks above his head-the ceiling of his prison, or the floor of the chamber above. It depended on one’s perspective, really, and it seemed to him that there ought to be an escape in that, if he could just recall the right spell.

“Vangerdahast?” asked the rat-faced priest. “Do you know where you are?”

Vangerdahast knew exactly where he was-in a prisoner’s tower-but he would not give his captors the pleasure of hearing him admit it. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked over to see the king grasping his shoulder.

“Old friend, do you remember me?”

“Of course.” Vangerdahast decided to stall for time and hope he could recall the spell he needed. “How could I Forget the usur-er, the king?”

Azoun relaxed visibly. “Thank the All Mother!” he gasped. “Do you remember my daughter? Can you tell me what happened to Tanalasta?”

The battle in the canyon returned to him in a flood, the first ghazneth knocking him from his horse with the dismembered body of an orc, the steel gate suddenly appearing with the second ghazneth behind it naked and wild-eyed, reaching for Tanalasta and the ranger, the ranger leaping from his grasp, that harlot of a princess flinging herself after him…

“It’s… it’s all so fuzzy.” Vangerdahast shook his head, then tried to sit up. When his bindings prevented it, he lifted his left arm and looked to the king. “Do you think I could-“

“Of course.”

Azoun started to pull his dagger to cut the bindings, but Owden leaned across the bed to restrain him. “Not yet, Majesty.”

“Not yet?” Vangerdahast yelled. He whirled on the priest and screamed, “Release me! Release me now, or I swear you will rue this day when the crown is mine!”

A weary groan escaped Azoun’s lips, and Vangerdahast saw at once that he was losing all hope of tricking his captors into releasing him. He turned to the king.

“It seems to be coming back.” He closed his eyes in concentration, though what he was concentrating on was recalling some spell that he could cast without his hands. “Perhaps if you let me have just one hand so I could tug on my beard. Yes, that’s it. Tugging on my beard always helps.”

Azoun merely shook his head and glared at Owden. “How much longer?”

The priest could only shrug. “I’m sure His Majesty cannot recall, but his own convalescence was difficult as well, and his wounds were not nearly as grievous as those of the royal magician.”

Vangerdahast blinked several times, then turned his head toward Owden. “Wait. I’m feeling much better now.”

“That’s good,” said Owden. “Can you remember what became of the princess?”

Vangerdahast nodded, and the incantation of his dimension door spell returned to him in a flash. It was a quick and simple alteration no more than half a dozen syllables long. Confident that he would soon be looking at the planks from the other side, he fixed his gaze on the ceiling and started his incantation-then smelled something familiar and strident as Owden Foley’s hand flashed into sight and flung a stream of glittering drops into his eyes.

Vangerdahast had the sudden sensation of falling, and the chamber went dark, and he woke later to find himself bound and naked, covered by a single linen, surrounded by enemies of the realm. Owden Foley stood to his right, a clammy cold cloth in one hand and a brass basin in the other. Alaphondar Emmarask and Merula the Marvelous watched from the foot of the bed, the one with eyes sunken and bloodshot from reading too much, the other dressed in a dusty robe, looking rather spectral and hollow-cheeked for a man of such robust proportions. To the wizard’s left stood Azoun IV in badly dented field armor, a new steel patch covering a jagged hole high on his breastplate.

“Azoun?” gasped Vangerdahast. “Have you been fighting?”

“Thank the gods!” The king clasped Vangerdahast’s shoulder. “You’re back among us.”

Vangerdahast glanced at the hand on his shoulder. “That’s awfully presumptuous, don’t you think?” The wizard lifted an arm to brush away the offending appendage, but found his wrist tied to the bed frame by a stout cord. He glared at the rope in disbelief, then demanded, “What’s the meaning of this? Remove it at once!”

Owden Foley leaned over the wizard and grasped his other arm. “Perhaps later,” he said. “Do you know where you are?”

Vangerdahast scowled. “Of course! I’m in my room in… We’re in the palace at…” He stared up at the familiar-looking joists and planks above his head, but for the life of him could not remember what city they were in. He pondered this for a moment, then reached the only possible conclusion. “You’ve kidnapped me!”

Azoun spewed an unspeakable curse on the goddess Chauntea, then started around the bed to leave. Owden raised a finger.

“One minute, Sire.”

The king glared at the priest. “Just one. I still have a wife to save, even if my daughter is beyond hope.”

Vangerdahast raised his head. “The queen?”

Owden nodded eagerly. “Yes, you remember the queen.”

“Filfaeril?”

“Queen Filfaeril,” Owden confirmed. “Do you remember what happened to her?”

“Of course!” Vangerdahast remembered everything: the battle in the canyon, Tanalasta flinging herself after Rowen, being attacked in the stable yard, trying to knock Filfaeril out of the ghazneth’s grasp. “Is the queen well?”

“That is impossible to say,” said Azoun. “The last time we saw her, she was definitely alive.”

Vangerdahast’s heart sank. “The last time you saw her?”

“I am afraid the ghazneth has her,” said Owden. “The king has seen her once, as he was closing in on the creature’s lair and it was forced to move her.”

“By Thauglor’s scales!” Vangerdahast started to rise, only to find himself still tied into bed. He stared at the silken bindings in confusion for a moment, then said, “Get these things off of me! We’ve got work to do.”

“Your work can wait a little longer,” said Owden. “You will not be fully cured until you have faced the demon within.”

“The demon within?” Vangerdahast demanded.

“Each of us carries our own demon inside,” Owden explained. “Most of us keep it imprisoned in the deepest, darkest part of our souls where it can do no harm. But when we undergo a terrible trauma such as you and the king suffered, these demons can escape.”

Vangerdahast turned to Azoun. “What nonsense is this?”

“Vangerdahast, maybe you’d better listen.”

“To a groundsplitter?” the wizard huffed. “Has Tanalasta finally gotten to you?”

A pained expression came to the king’s face, and he looked away without speaking.

“I’m afraid that would be impossible,” said Alaphondar, speaking for the first time. “We haven’t been able to convince you to tell us what became of the princess.”

Vangerdahast scowled. “What do you mean, ‘convince’? She’s with Rowen Cormaeril. They pulled away from me when I teleported back here.” He looked from Alaphondar to Azoun to Merula. “Is somebody going to tell me what’s happening here?”

“Of course,” said Owden. “Your inner demon escaped, and you need to recapture it.”

“Recapture it?”

“Before it consumes you entirely,” confirmed the priest. “You must look deep within yourself and face it, here before these witnesses. You must tell us what the demon wants, then you will have the strength to control it.”

Vangerdahast grew instantly suspicious. They were trying to extract a confession from him, but why? After all he had done for the realm, could Azoun actually be frightened of him? Or jealous of his power? The wizard turned to berate the king for his pettiness-and realized that was exactly what Owden wanted. Rebuking the king would only feed Azoun’s suspicion and breed resentment, while confessing to a secret envy of the royal birthright-as farfetched as that might be-would make it all but impossible for Azoun to trust him completely again. In either case, Owden would be standing by, ready to replace Vangerdahast’s counsel with his own-and to replace the war wizards with his Royal Temple of Chauntea.

Vangerdahast whirled on the priest. “You dirt-grubbing worm! You fork-tongued, scaly-bellied, lying snake. Do you really think you can meddle in royal affairs? I’ll see you growing mushrooms in the dungeon cesspits before I name my demons in front of you!”

Vangerdahast summoned to mind a spell he could cast with voice alone and began to utter his incantation. Owden reached for something, but the king raised his hand and waved him off.

“I’d say Vangerdahast is back to normal.”

Vangerdahast finished his spell, and in the next second was lying on his bed in the form of a small mink. He rolled to all four feet and dashed out from beneath the sheet, darting between Alaphondar and Merula into a nearby corner. There he stopped and changed back to his normal form, then turned to face his nervous-looking companions.

“Are you going to stand there and stare, or hand me a robe?” he demanded. “We’ve got work to do.”

Owden started around the bed. “You can’t do this,” he said. “You’re not ready.”

“Harvestmaster Foley, if you mention my inner demon one more time, I swear you’ll spend the rest of your life dodging thrushes in the palace gardens.”

Owden stopped at the foot of the bed and looked to Azoun.

The king only smiled and shrugged. “What can I say? Vangerdahast has always had a bit of the demon in him.” He looked to Merula, then added, “You heard the royal magician. Find the man his robe.”

As Merula scrambled to obey, Vangerdahast bowed to the king and said, “Thank you, Sire. It’s good to see that someone around here has returned to his senses.”

The wizard smoothed his beard, then ran a hand through what remained of his hair and noticed the slashes across the top of his head. He ran his fingers along the scars, noting that they had already sealed themselves.

“By Thauglor!” he cursed. “How long did you let me sleep?”

Azoun looked uncomfortable. “You’ve been… asleep for five days.”

“And you couldn’t wake me?” Vangerdahast whirled on Owden. “Aren’t you priests good for anything?”

Owden’s expression turned stormy, but before the priest could say anything, Azoun took Vangerdahast by the elbow and guided him toward a table and chairs.

“We’d better sit down and have a talk, old friend,” he said. “We’ve got some planning to do, and there are a lot of things we both don’t know.”