The Simbul's Gift

27

The city of Bezantur, in Thay Late afternoon, the twenty-fourth day of Eleasias, The Year of the Banner (1368DR)

The first indication that Aznar Thrul's traitorous spy master had of the burgeoning problems in Aglarond had come during the night, when frantic spellbound thoughts awoke her from a fitful sleep. The arcane messages were the same: Something dire and deadly had struck the chattel-kessir mongrels while they marched beneath a hanging storm, and something equally potent had risen up to defend them with lightning.

The spy master had reminded her minions that they remained safe because they were following their orders to lay low, to attract no attention whatsoever until they spied a horse among the mongrels.

After they saw the horse, their orders were different. The vanguard was to act for the glory of Thay. Her second group followed orders for her personal glory and that of their old master, Deaizul. The spy master had tried to pick up the threads of Deaizul's thoughts. He was with the chattel-kessir, within the mind of their leader. There had been problems earlier, problems that she didn't learn about until the damage was done. She tried to imagine her lover and mentor with a half-breed's pointed ears and mottled skin. It would be difficult, but if they brought Aznar Thrul down, then all things would become possible.

Deaizul, though, had been deep in his chattel-kessir identity and hadn't responded to her spell-sent pleas throughout the night. He would, she thought, have been accessible, if the problems were serious and when she couldn't rouse him, she'd gone about her affairs, blithely convinced that nothing truly significant had occurred.

Other matters occupied the spy master's mind this morning: an assassination in Amruthar, a reminder to a local magistrate that the city's independence depended entirely on the city's willingness to do what it was told. She was in the bolt-hole, updating her encoded notebooks, when the first essence egg exploded within the locked wooden chest. Three more had shattered by the time she opened it. All the broken eggs were bound to her personal minions in the Yuirwood.

She knew the eggs could break, but never in the ten years since Deaizul gave her the box had an egg exploded. Minions died and the powdered essence with their eggs grew dark; they didn't explode.

Frantic, almost beyond rational thought, the spy master dodged flying bits of glass, trying to protect the remaining eggs. To no avail. Within a handful of moments, every egg belonging to a Yuirwood spy was a splintered ruin and every spy-there was no other interpretation-was dead.

The dire beast from last night? The Aglarondan forest harbored creatures unknown in Thay. The Yuirwood itself was magical, so said Deaizul. Could it have killed with such force that death had echoed all the way back to Bezantur? Could there be another explanation? The Simbul had wrecked havoc in the farming village, but the eggs had survived. Mythrell'aa had headed west and disappeared, but swift mass murder wasn't Lady Illusion's style.

The spy master went to the separate cabinet where she kept her own egg and Deaizul's. His was intact and glowing. She held it in her hands. They were bleeding; she hadn't dodged all the glass. She pressed the egg between her breasts. She called Deaizul's name with her heart.

No answer. He was alive-trapped in a mongrel's body, but alive. And not listening to her pleas.

The spy master poured herself a glass of clear liquid. She drained the glass in two gulps, then swallowed another time directly from the decanter. Her heart no longer raced.

Why should Deaizul risk his place among the chattel-kessir by turning his attention toward her when she called? The mongrels were canny, like animals. They'd tear him apart, like animals, if they thought he was not one of them. He was alive. In Bezantur, nothing more mattered.

She poured another glass. Calmer now, she could see that events had gone for the best. She could tell the zulkir that the Yuirwood had unmasked her spies and their plans had come to naught. He'd be angry… until Deaizul had the power of the forest in his grasp. After that, the zulkir's anger would be too little, too late.

The carnelian token the spy master kept pinned to her robe grew warm, then hot. She unclasped it and dropped it on the table where it shimmered with its own heat. The blood-red stone bulged, became a pair of lips that opened to shape one word, "Now." It was Aznar Thrul's voice.

The summons couldn't be a coincidence, yet it had to be. The zulkir couldn't already know what she herself had just learned. The spy master assembled her old woman's disguise and hurried out of the bolt-hole. The chamberlain expected her; another first, like the exploding eggs. Even more disconcerting, he didn't wheedle or harass her, didn't want coins before opening the proper doors, didn't insist that she change into a flimsy gauze robe.

"The Mighty Tharchion, Mightier Zulkir awaits you in the smaller audience chamber," he said, tall and stiff and going out of his way not to touch her.

The spy master swallowed hard. Her mouth was pasty and sour. She wished she had something to drink, something potent. Failing that, she calmed herself with the knowledge that Deaizul was alive. His essence egg was secure in her bolt-hole cabinet, safe beside her own.

Her calm melted when she entered the small audience chamber where the zulkir sat, in robes of darkest crimson, behind a table and an opened box identical in every way to the one in which she kept the essence eggs. Nearly a score of the padded compartments were empty, dusted with glass shards and rust-colored powder. But the worst was in the upper right corner. Where her box had two completely empty compartments, corresponding to the places where her own egg and Deaizul's had once rested, Aznar Thrul's held two glowing, fragile essence eggs.

"I see you recognize this," the zulkir said. His words were winter ice, stinging the spy master's flesh.

"My lord, it is remarkably similar to a box Deaizul once showed me."

"Do not imagine you can deceive me any longer with misdirection and half-truths, woman. It is the twin-the precise double-of the box you keep in your private chamber behind the Sahuagin Tavern, in a locked cabinet. The doors are painted red."

"I meant only that Deaizul once showed me a second box, my lord."

"More lies! Deaizul thought there was but one box, and so did you! So careful, weren't you, collecting just enough flesh and blood to decoct a few drops of mortal essence to mix with the dragon wing and blood pearl? And buying your own reagents with plain coins. Oh so careful, and oh so clever. Do you think I became zulkir because I am a mooncalf fool, woman? I knew where you traded! You bargain so hard for my dragon wing, my blood pearl, and-for good measure-a few grains of red iron and cinnabar mixed with the dragon wing and mustard oil smeared ever-so-lightly over the pearls. Can you guess what I did?"

She could. The iron could attract another spell, the cinnabar-converted to minute quantities of quicksilver by the mustard oil-would reflect the essence to another location: the inside of Aznar Thrul's duplicate eggs. She felt ill. It wouldn't last. The dead didn't vomit.

"You sent two teams into the Yuirwood. Two. You only mentioned one. You said the other one was from Mythrell'aa. What were you thinking of?"

"One team failed in the village, my lord." Her doom sat in the open box. Even so, she wouldn't concede, wouldn't beg for mercy that wouldn't be forthcoming, not from Aznar Thrul. "I sent a second, to be certain mistakes were not repeated. I didn't want you to worry-"

"Worry? No, indeed, I'm not worried. Certain mistakes will never be repeated."

Thrul picked up a glowing egg: hers, unless he'd switched them. The eggs were identical. The essences they contained were indistinguishable, hence the carefully labeled compartments.

"Where is your lover, Deaizul?" the zulkir asked.

"I have not seen him in over a year."

"Then you do not know that he's in the Yuirwood? You do not know that his body was destroyed when he possessed a certain half-breed who-it turned out-was not quite the innocent he'd seemed."

"My lord, Deaizul often possessed those he spied upon. He lived their lives and served Thay until the Salamander Wars. His nerves broke."

Thrul took the second egg from the upper right corner. He juggled them from one hand to the other, he feigned clumsiness, but never lost control. It was however, impossible to guess which was which. "And you, woman, how are your nerves today?"

"My nerves are as they always have been. I have nothing to hide, my lord."

"Nothing but a plan hatched between you, your lover, and Mythrell'aa to lure me out of Bezantur with illusions of Aglarondan treasure. No, woman-mistakes will not be repeated."

He smashed the eggs together. The spy master's last thought, as her essence escaped, was that Aznar Thrul was a greater fool than she'd imagined possible.

Rizcarn had been stumbling and walking erratically for the last leg of the trek to the Sunglade. Behind him, Alassra and Halaern had exchanged more than a few worried glances. Nothing more than that was possible with the circlet resting on the queen's brow rather the forester's. In addition to watching Rizcarn, Alassra kept an eye on the Yuirwood itself. Centuries of experience dealing with corrupt wizards argued that Mythrell'aa wouldn't move again until they were in the Sunglade and the full moon was directly overhead. But centuries of experience wouldn't accurately predict the future.

The sun was an orange blaze sinking through rose and amber clouds when they cleared the ridge that girdled the Sunglade like a mother's open arms. It had been years-decades-since Alassra's one and only visit to the Yuirwood's best known, most mysterious stone circle. She'd forgotten how small it was. The inner circle wasn't more than five paces across-scarcely enough for eleven Cha'Tel'Quessir, a goddess and a dancing horse.

The Sunglade grew as they descended the ridge, a natural phenomenon of perspective and light from the setting sun. Rays struck mica crystals in the black granite stones and transformed them into giant jewels. Seeing the stones at sunset made it easy to understand why they were collectively called the Sunglade. Age and power hung in the air, not malicious, merely watching, waiting, as they had for centuries or millennia.

Alassra was awed, as she hadn't been during her other visit. Then the Sunglade had been a relic from another time, irrelevant to the Aglarond the Simbul ruled from Velprintalar. Now, looking out through Chayan SilverBranch's eyes, she felt the sad yearning of forgotten gods.

"I am not so certain I should go closer," she said, for Halaern's ears alone. "This is a Cha'Tel'Quessir place. It belongs to the Cha'Tel'Quessir alone." Alassra heard her own words: she had missed a turning point somewhere in her own mind. The Cha'Tel'Quessir weren't half-anything; they were fully themselves with a unique heritage and a destiny that could not be assumed by either humans or the Tel'Quessir.

Halaern studied her, a ghost of a smile playing with the corners of his mouth. "I am very glad you came back to the Yuirwood, cousin."

Other words would have been unnecessary and unwise. The Cha'Tel'Quessir around them had accepted the forester's sudden appearance, but their opinions of Chayan SilverBranch hadn't changed since she'd said that Zandilar the Dancer had healed Rizcarn's son. They accepted her as they might not accept Aglarond's queen.

They were fifty paces short of the Sunglade's outer ring, with Rizcarn some ten paces ahead of them, when Rizcarn stumbled again and, this time, fell to the ground.

"The Yuirwood expressing its opinion?" Alassra asked, breaking into a run.

Halaern remained behind, using his position as forester and elder of a most respected tree-family to keep the other eight Cha'Tel'Quessir from crowding his queen as she looked for signs of Red Wizardry. The Simbul was grateful, but she wanted his opinion.

"Cousin?"

He knelt beside her. "What is it?"

"A man asleep, as near as I can tell. That gash on his face wants mending and I haven't wanted to touch it for fear of tipping my hand, as it were."

"You wish me to try?"

Alassra nodded. The forester's healing talents were enhanced by the circlet she'd given him, but not derived from it. All the foresters practiced a form of simple druidry unique to the Yuirwood and effective within its bounds. Halaern laid his hands on either side of the gash, near Rizcarn's temples. He closed his eyes a moment, then sat back on his heels, frowning.

"This is Rizcarn," he whispered. "Once dead and crazy as a magpie in spring, but Rizcarn all the same. We've suspected him wrongly, my lady."

"I think otherwise, cousin. I think whatever had a hold of him has let go-for good. What bothers me is I have no idea to whom or what we owe this bit of good fortune. I was hoping you'd detect a Cha'Tel'Quessir god's hand moving through his thoughts."

"He serves Relkath, my lady. It is a thankless service. The gods of the Yuirwood-" Halaern shrugged. "Some things are best left asleep. Do you wish me to heal his face and arm?"

Flesh knit together under the forester's capable fingers, leaving jagged scars that would fade with time. Rizcarn hadn't moved during the healing nor when they called his name. They were exchanging worried glances again and the Cha'Tel'Quessir were creeping closer when Rizcarn's eyes fluttered open. He sat up too quickly and fell back with a groan. Halaern leapt to his feet and, spreading his arms, kept the Cha'Tel'Quessir at a distance while Alassra waited until Rizcarn was ready to sit again, then stand.

"How are you feeling?"

Rizcarn pursed his lips and gave the question evident thought. "Better."

He cocked his head, staring at the woman who had helped him. Once before he'd stared at Chayan, and the Simbul had looked away, fearing that his dark eyes could pierce her deceptions. She had no similar sense this time, though it was obvious Rizcarn was recalling memories and reorganizing his thoughts. He let out his breath with a weary sigh.

"I have not been myself, Chayan SilverBranch. These have been terrible days. Terrible, terrible days since Relkath told me where to find my son with Zandilar's Dancer."

Alassra was inclined to agree, but surprised that he saw events the same way. "Your son is missing, taken, we think, by Red Wizards from Thay." She watched for Rizcarn's reaction.

"A terrible thing. Yes. Such a man waited for me, a Red Wizard from Thay. I killed him, but that wasn't enough. He became part of me. I turned to Relkath, but there was nothing Relkath could do, so I did what I was meant to do while Relkath found a way to free me."

"Now, as we drew close to the Sunglade, Relkath overcame the Red Wizard's influence?" It was not an explanation the Simbul had considered.

"I am myself again. I am here at the Sunglade with the Cha'Tel'Quessir. I have done Relkath's work and he has rewarded me. There is no doubt in my mind, Chayan SilverBranch. How can there be doubt in yours? You serve Zandilar; I see her presence within you. Through you, she healed my son-" Rizcarn took Alassra's arm and pulled her closer so he could whisper in her ear. "Relkath forgives you for last night, during the storm. He was only trying to free me. You should not have fought him."

Alassra smiled. "I didn't know," she said and nodded awkwardly when he released her arm. Rizcarn was, as Halaern said, "Once dead and crazy as a magpie in spring." He was, however, as much himself as he was ever likely to be and-for whatever reason, with whatever help-free of Thayan influence.

He took her arm again, suddenly and tightly. "Lanig… Lanig! Relkath, forgive me! I killed my friend Lanig because he guessed I was not myself."

The Simbul pried herself loose. "That is between you and Relkath."

"Yes. Yes, you're right. I will listen to the trees. There is still time. The moon won't rise until the sky is dark. Zandilar won't come until midnight. There's time. I will tell the others what they must do."

Rizcarn moved out of her shadow. He took a few steps toward Halaern and the others, then stopped, staring at the forester as if he hadn't expected to see him.

"Trovar YuirWood, old friend, why are you here?" Rizcarn's tone belied his greeting.

Halaern separated from the other Cha'Tel'Quessir. "I go where I'm needed. I was needed here."

"This is not your path, Trovar YuirWood. You chose a different one a long time ago. Giving that crown to your cousin changes nothing in your heart, Trovar YuirWood. You don't belong here."

To Alassra's surprise, her friend simply nodded and started walking away. She called him back, the verdigrised circlet in her outstretched hand. He replaced it on his brow.

I would rather you stayed. There's no telling what he'll do without the Red Wizard keeping him sane! Alassra meant the words in jest, though there was truth in them.

He serves Relkath, my lady. I serve you. The breach cannot be spanned. I won't be far.

The Simbul watched him go, wondering if every Cha'Tel'Quessir had to work out his or her personal relationship with the Yuirwood gods, just like every human and every elf. When Rizcarn muttered, "Good riddance!" at the forester's shadow she lost her infamous temper.

"We needed him!" she shouted, then-remembering that Rizcarn thought she served Zandilar-she added. "I needed him. Who will dance with me? Who will ride my damned horse?"

Rizcarn was unperturbed. "Wait. Be patient. Relkath will provide."

Alassra Shentrantra did not wait well. She had never mastered patience. She went into the forest to seal herself in silence and prepare the spells she thought she might need later in the evening. That didn't take much time; she was always prepared for trouble. Her eight Cha'Tel'Quessir companions, whatever their other virtues-and she was certain they must have some-were as interesting as the sky on a cloudless day. Halaern was out in the laurel. Bro was imprisoned, enduring torment only a zulkir would imagine. And Rizcarn was sitting in the middle of the inner stone circle, once again aglow with a silver-green aura. By Alassra's best guess, the moon was still several handspans below the eastern horizon. She'd begun to wonder how long it would take one of Mystra's immortal Chosen to die of sheer boredom.

She counted the stars as they appeared in the twilight sky. There were three hundred and twenty-two when Rizcarn hoisted himself to his feet.

"The 'Glade," he announced, "is ready. We are ready to dance for Zandilar."

Truth to tell, Alassra Shentrantra wasn't much of a dancer, either. Court dances with their pattern steps were worse than boring and the ecstatic dancing Rizcarn described asked too much of a wizard who enjoyed spontaneity only when she was in complete control of it. When Rizcarn proposed that she dance alone at the center of the circles while he led the Cha'Tel'Quessir in a vine dance among the inner stones she came within a heartbeat of heading straight back to Velprintalar.

"I thought Zandilar was going to do all the dancing," she protested.

"Zandilar will! Zandilar will awaken from the ground. She will become one with you, Chayan. You and she will dance together."

"Someone else should have the honor. I've been away from the Yuirwood for so long that I've forgotten how to dance."

She looked toward the women among the Cha'Tel'Quessir: three of them, each young enough to seduce a man with their dancing. They all refused to meet Alassra's eyes.

"You are the one to dance Zandilar's part," Rizcarn persisted. "You serve her; she's chosen you. It doesn't matter where you've been. The dance is part of you; your body remembers it from childhood. Come." He beckoned her toward the circles. "Take your place."

Grimly-she'd rather face a score of Red Wizards, ten-score of Red Wizards-Alassra unbuckled her sword belt. "Will there be music?" she asked as she walked past Rizcarn. "Or do I have to remember that, too?"

Rizcarn produced a set of silver pipes. "I will make the melody, the forest and the 'Glade will make the rest."

There were ten stones in the inner circle; one for each of them. Alassra read Relkath's name on one, Magnar and Elikarashae on two more, Zandilar's on a fourth, above the old Espruar rune for dancing. If she had a place, then Zandilar's stone was it and she started for it.

The Simbul wasn't Zandilar. She wasn't a dancer. There were six other stones in the circle whose inscriptions had been eroded. She picked one of those stones, the northernmost stone.

"That's the wrong stone!" Rizcarn shouted.

On impulse, Alassra knelt before the stone. She traced what remained of its inscription. There were no legible marks. It was as if its god's name had been chiseled out before time had begun its work.

"Zandilar's stone, in the west, where the moon's light will surround you."

"This is my stone," the Simbul informed him, using a tone that made gods think twice before arguing with her.

Rizcarn-or his god-got the message. "We will begin together. Chayan, you will move to the center when it is the right time." He anticipated her next question. "You will know when it is the right time. There will be no doubt."

It was plain awkward at first. Alassra was conscious of every knee, ankle, elbow, and wrist. Her back was rigid and her hips simply would not sway to the twisting, twirling music that came from Rizcarn's silver pipes. No Red Wizard or Zhentarim mage had devised a crueler torture. As moonlight peeked through the trees, awkwardness became anger-the childish, self-destructive anger that had worried her Rashemaar guardians centuries ago. Alassra struck the man behind her hard enough to knock him to the ground; she only wished it had been Rizcarn and that the whole farce would come to a halt.

But Rizcarn was out of reach on the other side of the Cha'Tel'Quessir vine. To reach him, she'd have to move across the circle. That would be dancing, alone, and the time would never be right for that.

Never.

The moon rose above the ridge, huge and so bright it hurt, like the sun, to look at its face. Anger, frustration, and the knowledge that it was hours until dawn, pushed Alassra Shentrantra to distraction. She seized her hair-Chayan's brown hair-and pulled it out by the roots, letting her hair-the Simbul's silver hair-flow into its place. She became blue eyed again, and pale skinned. She threw back her head and screamed.

The power of the Yuirwood, so like the lightning essence she called upon when she fought her enemies and yet so different, too, rose within her. It burst through the pores of her skin, her eyes and mouth, the tips of her fingers. And then, as suddenly as it had ebbed, the essence waned.

"Who will come away with me?"

Rizcarn's music had stopped. The question came from the center of the circle where a silver-form woman stood beside a twilight horse.

"Who will dance with me?"

Alassra waited with the others. Her scream, and the power that answered it, had brought a sense of peace, of oneness with the world around her, that she had rarely known before. She was ready for whatever Relkath-or the Zulkir of Illusion-provided. The subtle play of magic beyond the paired circles didn't disturb her. Two people, possibly three, stepped from the shadows of magic to the shadows of the Yuirwood: Mythrell'aa-tiny, hairless, and patterned like a deadly snake-and one, possibly two, man-shaped companions.

"Who will dance with me?" Zandilar asked.

One of Mythrell'aa's companions started walking forward. Alassra readied a spell that would release four others: three to punch through Mythrell'aa's defenses, one to whisk Bro to safety. It wouldn't take a gesture or even a word to loose them; a thought, an intention would be sufficient and not even a zulkir's reflexes would be fast enough to counteract them.

She waited for the optimum moment when Bro was closer to her than to Mythrell'aa, for the moment she could see his face.

Not his face.

Not the face of Ebroin of MightyTree, but the face of Lailomun Zerad, smiling, laughing, running toward her.