The Simbul's Gift

11

Thazalhar, in eastern Thay Early evening, the fifteenth day of Eleasias, The Year of the Banner (1368DR)

Thazalhar, the wild and empty easternmost province of Thay, was a place to be endured by the wizards, soldiers, and slaves compelled to serve there. It was a place ignored by the rest of Thay, and loved only by the very few who chose to live among its rolling hills. That small number included the Zulkir of Enchantment, twenty leagues away from home and riding hard along the old Mulhorand trunk road out of Pyarados on the west bank of the River Thazarim.

The zulkir leaned into the gallop of his favorite mount, a stallion carved from green and black marble and brought to life by the twelfth Zulkir of Enchantment a hundred years ago. The stallion was inexhaustible and unfazed by whatever magic a zulkir or his enemies cast across its path. Whether the road curved or straightened, turned glassy black or shimmering silver, the stone horse took everything in stride.

While his rider suffered.

Lauzoril had begun his journey before dawn in Tyraturos, deep in the Thayan plateau, crossed the Thazarim at noon and expected to be sore, but home in time for supper. A roomy saddle with a flying carpet folded carefully around it cushioned the zulkir from the worst of the stallion's hammer-legged gait. An assortment of magics kept him awake, alert, and free from the inconveniences of hunger and thirst, but nothing could spare him the headache born of continually enchanting the road in front of him so that wherever in Thay his journey began, it would end a half-day later.

Lauzoril could have used a spell to speed his travel and eliminate any discomfort. Indeed, he had used magic to leave the Tyraturos garret where he'd spent the previous evening trading rumors and favors over dinner with a disgruntled diviner.

The dinner was at the diviner's request. His zulkir, Yaphyll, a woman who'd been allied with Lauzoril and Aznar Thrul until last year, was apparently ready to change sides again. The diviner offered a gift: a token of Yaphyll's restored good faith: a true copy-or so the diviner claimed-of a spell that would reveal not only the properties of an enchanted object, but the precise spells that had enchanted it. A useful thing, if it were a true copy, and, even if it was, insufficient proof that Yaphyll could be trusted.

If she couldn't and the diviner had been looking for advantage with Tam's enemies, then trailing Lauzoril's after-dinner spell would have gained him nothing. Lauzoril had destroyed the shed where he'd concealed the stone horse and it left no trail for either hounds or magic to follow. No one knew precisely where enchantment's zulkir made his home, and that was not about to change today.

To the best of his considerable ability, Lauzoril had erected an impenetrable wall between his life as zulkir and the Thazalhar estate where an undistinguished Lord Tavai dwelt in obscurity. With the arsenal of enchantment to draw upon in addition to his own personality, he kept his children, slaves, and domestic retainers ignorant of his public life. His Red Wizard peers assumed that he spent his private hours in pursuits best left unimagined.

Lauzoril's peers weren't entirely wrong. Their lives were rooted in Thay's stifling cities with their dark pleasures and illicit markets. When deceit and intrigue were called for, Lauzoril rose to the challenge, but between acts in the zulkirs' endless drama, he escaped to the countryside, proving-he supposed as he reined the stallion to a halt-that enchanters were romantics at heart and that their zulkir was the greatest romantic of all.

Once, long before Lauzoril was born, all that would become Thay had been farmland where every valley was under plow and every ridge supported a flock of sheep. The farmers had been as poor as their land was rich. Everything they produced went to Mulhorand to please the god-emperor. In those days the Red Wizards were persecuted revolutionaries, firebrands for liberty in all its seductive guises. Driven from the Mulhorandi heartland, they fled north, past Thazalhar, to Delhumide, where they found themselves surrounded by unlikely, but stalwart, allies. Together, the wizards and farmers declared their independence from imperial laws and taxes… with predictable results.

Mulhorand sent its armies north to destroy the rebels and replant their feet on the farmers' necks. Facing certain death or slavery if they lost, the wizards and farmers waged a desperate war for freedom that culminated on the rolling hills of Thazalhar.

They won the battle of Thazalhar, but at tremendous cost. The Red Wizards fought with magic and minions from the elemental plains; the farmers fought with steel. Fighting was fierce-a score of Mulhorandi soldiers went down for every wizard or farmer who died. Mulhorand lost half of all its armies in that one battle; two-thirds of Thazalhar, women and children in addition to fighters, lay dead as well. Yet the land had suffered most. Scorched by spell-craft and soured with blood, Thazalhar's bountiful farms became blackened ruins where nothing grew or could be grown for generations.

Even now, four centuries later, though Thazalhar was fertile again, it remained largely uninhabited. Each spring thaw raised a crop of grisly relics from their ancient graves. The boundary walls of Lord Tavai's estate were built from moldered bones and rusted armaments; they discouraged intruders. Visitors thought Thazalhar was haunted; residents knew.

Lauzoril dismounted. He exchanged his Red Wizard robes for a gentleman farmer's comfortable leather and linen. Then the Zulkir of Enchantment and Charm dug a small hole beside the road and filled it with scraps from his Tyraturos dinner: crumbs of bread, a slice of roast pheasant, two green grapes, and a bit of cloth stained with wine.

"For the dead," he said, tamping the loosened soil back into the hole. "For Thazalhar and the dreams we've all forgotten."

It was customary for Red Wizards to pay lip service to some god in Faerun's pantheon. In his youth, Lauzoril had divided his infrequent prayers equally between Beshaba, Maid of Misfortune, and her sister, Lady Luck. The strategy served him well until he became Zulkir of Enchantment-more importantly, until he took possession of his predecessor's Thazalhar estate. Then Lauzoril's view of life and death began to change. Though he'd publicly continued his dual devotions, the private man sought a worship more appropriate to the scarred land he'd come to love.

In those days, The Reaper had been the deity most often seen, most often invoked in Thazalhar, but Lauzoril never warmed to him, perhaps because Myrkul was his father and grandfather's god-of-choice. Bhaal and Moander had appealed even less to his romantic temperament. Recently Kelemvor had appeared as the new Lord of the Dead. Lord Tavai approved of the new god's notion that death was the natural end of life. He began performing his private rituals in Kelemvor's honor.

Whether Kelemvor appreciated or approved of the offerings meant nothing. Like any Red Wizard who'd survived his education and gone on to acquire power in the Thayan hierarchy, Lauzoril believed in himself above all else-zulkirs couldn't afford the slightest doubt in that regard.

Lord Tavai remounted. He guided the stone horse off the road. They were on his land now, where a score of enchantments hung in the air, guaranteeing that even if he were seen riding across the ridges, neither he nor his unusual stallion would be remembered.

A small woods, framed with graveyard walls, abutted the fields where the lord's men and women tended his grain. Lauzoril's shadow, long and dark in the sunset light, preceded him into the trees where a marble statue awaited his return. The statue was identical in all ways to the stallion the zulkir rode-except that it was pure glamor and dissipated as the real stone horse planted its hooves on the dais.

The woods were quiet, without the tang of menace Lauzoril's warding spells would have conveyed had danger lain waiting. He had, however, the sense that he was being watched. The watching eyes might belong to a bird or animal, and thus have failed to trigger his spells or they could belong to a magic user with the skills and spells to pass unharmed through a zulkir's wards. Lauzoril took no chances. He placed his hand firmly on the gold-wrapped hilt of his dagger.

The knife awakened at his touch and challenged his right to dominate it. Lauzoril met the challenge and quenched its rebellion. The knife's spirit, Shazzelurt, spoke directly to his mind.

Nothing, Master. Nothing magical. Nothing lost.

As old as the ore from which it had been forged, Shazzelurt was not easily deceived. Lauzoril heeded its warnings, but sometimes disregarded its assurances. He concentrated on a potent enchantment that could stun a serious foe and annihilate a lesser one. The fingers of his left hand formed the requisite gesture, the triggering word was fresh in his mind: he'd cast the spell with his dying breath, if worse came to worst.

Until then…

"Show yourself."

He heard rustling. Without magic's aid, no human eyes could see deeply into the twilight shadows, but the sound had been too large for a bird or squirrel. Large enough for a man? Even now his wards were quiescent and Shazzelurt remained silent.

"I'm of a mind to be merciful, but be warned: My mind is quicksilver."

More rustling, then movement through the shadows. Too small to be a man, Lauzoril considered the gnomes and goblin-kin he kept as slaves. The moment of mercy faded. He'd raised his hand before he heard a very familiar voice.

"Poppa? Poppa, I'm sorry. Please, Poppa… I didn't know what would happen. I didn't know I'd find you here."

"Mimuay," Lauzoril sputtered before words failed him.

He'd come within a breath of killing his daughter and needed a moment to slow his racing heart. In lieu of words, he spun a light sphere from one of his rings and let it float above the stone horse's head. His eldest daughter stared at the sphere, at the horse: She'd never seen her father do what he did best.

Never.

She trembled, trying not to cry. Her hair was mussed with leafy bits. Her shift and face were both creased from lying on the ground. Lauzoril guessed she'd fallen asleep waiting for his return.

"Your mother will be crying by now, thinking that you're lost forever," he said with unfeigned sternness. "Everyone will be looking for you, but no one will look here. No one else would disobey my orders."

The girl nodded; a tear escaped and made a shiny track down her cheek. She was a plain child under the best of circumstances; tears did not become her. Lauzoril quenched the light and threw the saddle and its packs over his shoulder. The flying carpet, ever buoyant, eased the load.

"Shall we walk together to the house?"

"Poppa?"

She sought his hand through the shadows. Her fingers were cold and clammy. Lauzoril warmed them naturally with his own.

"Why were you in the grove?" he asked as they emerged from it.

Mimuay shivered and withdrew her hand. "I have a friend, Poppa."

The zulkir contained a sigh. It was bound to happen. He kept his daughters isolated and innocent, but childhood couldn't last forever. Mimuay was thirteen. When he was thirteen he'd already mastered the fourth level of enchantment and forgotten his childhood.

"One of the retainers? One of the slaves?"

Leaves rustled as she shook her head. "A ghost, Poppa."

Lauzoril stopped short, shedding his burdens. He seized his daughter by the shoulders and pivoted her around until the dying sunlight reflected in her eyes. A ghost! He didn't want to think what a ghost could do to his daughter.

"Not a ghost," he concluded after his examination. Courtesy of his ancestors-Mimuay's ancestors-he knew more about the undead than any other enchanter in Thay.

"But he's not alive, Poppa."

"There are many things that aren't alive-that doesn't mean they're ghosts. Stay away from ghosts, Mimuay."

"Yes, Poppa. I promise."

"As you promised to stay out of the grove?"

She pulled away from him, staring back at the trees. This was not a conversation he'd ever meant to have and, not surprisingly, it wasn't going well. They were alike-he'd known that since she was old enough to talk-now they were both angry, both frightened. He took a deep breath and tried again.

"Does your friend have a name?"

"Ferrin. He's been dead a long time."

In Thazalhar, that was almost a certainty. "So, this Ferrin-whatever-did he tell you to disobey your father?"

Mimuay hesitated, plucking leaf bits from her hair and crumbling them to dust. "He said… He said I had a gift, but you had a greater one that you'd share with me if… if I went to the grove while you were gone and stayed there until you returned."

Of course, Mimuay had a gift. She was his daughter, as he was Chazsinal's son and Gweltaz's grandson. She was his wife's daughter, as well, and despite what Wenne had become she, too, was the daughter and granddaughter of wizards. The aptitude for magic wasn't completely heritable, but breeding was important. Lauzoril's daughters were well-bred; both could find themselves held as hostages or worse in another Red Wizard's schemes for power. But Mimuay was special. She stood before him, as sunset became twilight, with her fists clenched and tears glistening in her eyes. Lauzoril could only guess what her gifts might measure. He feared her as much as he feared for her.

"Did your friend tell you what this gift I'd share with you might be?"

"No," she answered, a palpable lie, but one he'd overlook for the moment. "Did you bring me anything?"

Lauzoril pointed to the packs heaped behind him. While Mimuay burrowed with unseemly haste, he swore privately that he'd find Ferrin, the friend who'd stolen his daughter's innocence.

"O-o-o, Poppa! The colors-they're lovely!"

Mimuay had found her gift: skeins of jewel-toned silk from the Kara-Turan jungles and a coil of gold wire drawn finer than a single strand of the silk. His eldest daughter was an embroiderer, an enchanter with threads of silk and precious metals. Wenne had taught her; embroidery was the only magic Wenne understood. Lauzoril had hoped-even prayed-that embroidery would be enough for Mimuay.

"How can you tell in this light?" he asked, an honest question considering the circumstances.

"Because you chose them for me," Mimuay answered, a new maturity in her voice. "Because you're angry with me, and I want so much for you not to be." She stood up, a chapbook, not the silks, clutched in her hands. "Nyasia will like the doll. It's pretty, like her. Is this for Mother?"

"It is," Lauzoril replied. He knew where their conversation headed now, and liked it not at all, but he'd survived all these years because he could face what he didn't like.

"Will you read it to her?"

"If she asks me to. Perhaps she'll ask you instead."

"Is it about a princess locked in a tower, waiting for a prince to rescue her from her cruel grandfather?"

"Of course-and, yes, there are pictures on every page. The princess has dark brown hair, like yours. The prince… The prince's eyes are green, like yours, too."

"Was he a cruel man, Poppa?"

"The prince? He did what must be done, Mimuay, and made his peace with the consequences."

"Not the prince in the story, Poppa. The grandfather-Mother's grandfather. Was he a cruel man?"

"Both your grandfathers were cruel men, Mimuay, who despised their sons. But your mother's grandfather cherished your mother. He tried to protect her the only way he could."

"Was my great-grandfather the Zulkir of Enchantment?"

A man who'd faced Szass Tam's wrath didn't quake or crumble no matter what his daughter said, but that didn't stop Lauzoril's heart from skipping a beat or two. "More gifts from your friend Ferrin, Mimuay?"

"No, Poppa-and that's the truth, believe me. He's very careful with what he tells me. He says you're very powerful and he doesn't want to anger you."

"What Ferrin wants and what Ferrin will receive are entirely different, daughter."

"No, Poppa. No! Please! I guessed myself. Mother talks sometimes when you're gone. Mostly… mostly she lives in her storybooks but sometimes she makes sense."

Lauzoril lashed out with the back of his many-ringed hand, catching the blow just before it struck Mimuay's cheek. "Never-Never! — speak so ill of your mother."

The girl froze, eyes wide with horror: she'd never felt the force of her father's temper-still hadn't felt its full, terrible force for that matter, but she-thank the many gods-didn't know that. She dropped, sobbing, to her knees.

"I thought you were the prince, Poppa. I didn't guess you were like her grandfather."

"Exactly like her grandfather, Mimuay. I killed her grandfather in a duel two years before you were born. Since that night I have been the Zulkir of Enchantment."

Lauzoril hadn't meant to be cruel, not to his daughter nor to the child-woman he found locked away here on the Thazalhar estate, surrounded by tapestries and storybooks. Wenne believed she was a princess and he… he was the image of the prince she'd been promised. For a year the young zulkir indulged her fantasies; after that, it was too late.

"Do you love her, Poppa? Do you love any of us?"

"Yes," he answered simply. The Zulkir of Enchantment was also the Zulkir of Charm: a consummate liar with the power to make any child believe that the sun rose in the west. He chose, in the end, to tell the truth. "Wenne is the heart of my home, the mother of you and Nyasia-whom I do love without reservation, even when I shouldn't. But no, Mimuay, I do not love your mother, not as a man wants to love his wife. When you're older, you'll understand."

Mimuay sniffed up her tears and rose to her feet. "It's magic, isn't it, that makes her the way she is, like a child who never grew up? Magic that her grandfather put on her?"

"The old zulkir thought he could keep her safe if he enchanted her mind so she could never learn magic-never learn anything at all except her embroidery. She wouldn't become a rival to him or a hostage to others."

"When will you put that magic on me, Poppa?"

They stared at each other. Lauzoril saw his own death waiting in his beloved daughter's eyes. He should kill her right now. The old zulkir's enchantment wouldn't be enough, hadn't been enough with Wenne. And because he'd raised his daughters with love and kindness-or tried to-he foresaw that Mimuay would come to hate him, come to destroy him when she learned what he did outside Thazalhar.

The spell was in Lauzoril's mind: a word, a gesture, and his daughter would die instantly. He shook his head. The spell might be there, but the will to use it wasn't. He'd sooner die himself than harm her body or warp her mind.

"There are spells and magic all around you, to keep you safe, but my magic's never touched you, not even to straighten your crooked front tooth. It never will."

"Will you teach me, Poppa? Will you share your gift?"

Lauzoril couldn't refuse. His daughter became a child again, throwing herself at him, wrapping her arms around his chest. He remembered when she had embraced his knees. It hadn't been all that long ago.

He was a fool, a romantic fool, and she would become his death. But death would come; the new god Kelemvor hadn't decreed any changes. Death should come to everyone, even zulkirs.

Especially zulkirs.

So he foresaw that Mimuay would come to hate him, to destroy him. Where was it written that fate was immutable? Szass Tam could destroy them all tomorrow, no matter what a father decided to do tonight. And tonight that father had the leafy smell of his daughter's love surrounding him. The balance pans of his life were level. No father-no man or zulkir-could ask for more.