Black Wizards (2 page)

“Enter.”

The assassin looked around sharply but could not see the source of the hissing voice. Nevertheless, the stone wall before him slipped open, revealing a corridor even blacker than the surrounding night.

Muttering a curse, the assassin entered and disappeared into inky darkness. In his silk shirt and trousers he slipped along without a whisper, his soft leather boots gliding silently over the smooth stone floor. All around him the sprawling vastness of Caer Callidyrr lay dark and slumbering.

The assassin walked cautiously into one of the castle’s towers. He saw blackness, a deep and unnatural gloom. Then he heard a soft snapping of fingers, and the darkness dissipated. But it did not exactly grow light; the effect was more a relief of blackness. Faint rays of moonlight spilled through narrow windows high in the walls, and he could vaguely make out the council.

The Seven sat around a long, U-shaped table. They faced the assassin, their table open before him like the jaws of some beast. Deep, cowled hoods concealed the faces. The assassin looked up at them and clamped his teeth together. He could scarcely repress a shudder of revulsion.

The one in the center, he knew, was Cyndre.

The master of the wizards confirmed his identity, his gentle voice belying the terrible powers at his command.

“You were careless about that task in Moray. King Dynnegall’s daughter survived long enough to provide a description of your men.”

The assassin sniffed loudly through his broad nose. “The guards were more numerous than you led me to expect. We had to kill several dozen of them. And the nursemaid hid the baby in an attic—it took
us hours to dig out the little brat. I lost two good men, and the mission was a success—the Dynnegall line is ended—as I ended the royal line of Snowdown for you last year.” The assassin punctuated his statement with a low, inhuman growl.

“I do not expect such sloppiness, for the coin I am paying,” said the great wizard quietly. “Even your mother, the orc, could have done better.”

The insult was too much. A dagger flashed from the assassin’s sleeve. Faster than the eye could follow, it flicked toward the wizard’s unarmored breast.

The others gasped in surprise, flinching at the sudden attack, but Cyndre merely raised a finger and quietly spoke a word. Instantly, only a foot from its target, the dagger was transformed. In its place, a large bat fluttered upward, turning to lunge at the assassin’s throat.

Another dagger flashed, but this one remained in the assassin’s hand. He casually spitted the bat upon the thin blade and flicked the carcass to the tabletop before Cyndre. He could sense Cyndre’s eyes upon him, boring from the depths of his hood.

For a moment the room remained frozen, the wizards intent upon their leader. The assassin stood stock-still before the table. The black wizard gestured casually, and the dead bat instantly disappeared. A smooth, amused chuckle emerged from the dark hood, and the tension in the room slowly drained away.

“Now, Razfallow,” continued the wizard, his voice as pleasant as ever, “you will soon be free to return to Calimshan. However, one more king upon the Moonshaes threatens the dominance of our … liege.

“You will take your band to Caer Corwell. The prince of that realm is something of a local hero, and he is a menace to our ambitions. The cleric, Hobarth, has warned us that we must act quickly, for the prince has a beloved who is equally dangerous.

“You are to kill them, and the king, as well. The fee will be twice your usual—thrice if you can return the prince’s sword to Caer Callidyrr. Above all else, this prince must die.”

et’s go swimming now! Can’t we, Robyn? It’s so hot, and we’ve been working so hard.…”

“You mean
I’ve
been working so hard!” said the young woman, pausing to push a sweat-soaked strand of black hair back from her face. “All you’ve done is get in the way!”

Her companion, a two-foot-long orange dragon that buzzed like a hummingbird around her, turned his scaly snout away in momentary indignation.

“Besides, Newt,” Robyn continued, “I’ve got to sort out this tangle of vines before we do anything else. They seem to grow thicker every day! I don’t know how Genna tended this entire grove by herself.” Once again, she pried the vines away from the trunk with a heavy stick, grasping one and pulling it free from the ground. She tossed the vine onto a pile of its fellows, destined for an evening fire.

“Why do you have to sort these stupid old vines anyway?” the dragon sulked. “Let them grow the way they want to—and let us go swimming the way we want to.”

“I’ve told you a hundred times, Newt. This is the sacred grove of the Great Druid of Gwynneth, and she is training me in the ways of our order. Part of my training is to obey her instructions and to aid in caring for the grove.”

The explanation sounded a little hollow even to Robyn, who had, for nearly a year, dutifully followed the instructions of her aunt and
tutor, Genna Moonsinger. Today was not the first time the Great Druid had rested peacefully in the shady comfort of the cottage while her erstwhile student toiled away in the summer heat.

Still, Robyn was a devout pupil. She paused and drew a deep breath, relaxing as she exhaled. She repeated the process as her teacher had shown her, and soon she felt the annoyance pass away. Robyn turned again to the thick vines that threatened to strangle the trunk of an ancient oak. She even felt guilty about her doubts. Genna always works so hard, she reminded herself. She certainly deserves the rest.

Robyn’s job was near the periphery of the enchanted area that was the Great Druid’s grove. Near her were the tall hedges that bordered much of the grove, and she was surrounded by massive oaks. Closer to the heart of the grove sprawled a wondrous garden and its placid pond, and within these areas stood Genna’s simple cottage.

Behind the cottage stood the grove’s dominant physical feature, and also its spiritual heart: the Moonwell. The deep pool was surrounded by a ring of tall stone columns covered in bright green moss. The tops of several pairs of pillars were capped with stone crosspieces, raised by the earthpower of great druids in ages past.

It was to learn the secrets of this earthpower that Robyn studied her craft so diligently. She had proven, both to herself and to her teacher, that she had the innate talent to perform druid magic. This was the legacy of the mother she had never known. Inherited power was one thing; it was another matter to learn the skills and discipline necessary to control that power.

Robyn pulled on a thick root, bending it away from the trunk until it snapped free. She tossed it onto the pile and grasped another tendril with a hand that had grown strong and calloused during her training. That vine, too, came reluctantly away from the oak tree, but it required most of her strength to pull against the tension of the plant.

“Well, I’ll help too, if that’s what it’ll take to get done with this. Here—I’ll pull on this one and you grab that—”

“No!” cried Robyn, but before she could stop him, the little dragon had seized a loose end of vine and pulled it with a strength that belied his small size. The vines she had so carefully untangled burst free and instantly twisted back around the tree trunk.

The springing mass of vines caught the faerie dragon in their coils,
pinning him against the tree. A short, wriggling stretch of red tail and a tiny, clawed foot stuck from the tangle of vines.

“That serves you right!” she chided him as she began to pull the vines from the tree once again. “You should pay attention to what you’re doing.”

Newt finally forced his head from the tangle and shook it quickly. “That’s the last time I try to help you,” he huffed as he crawled free. Flexing his gossamer wings, he buzzed into the air and hovered before her.

“Why don’t you just use your magic on these vines and be done with the job?” he asked, eyeing the tree belligerently.

“The tending of the grove is a matter for a druid’s hands and heart,” replied Robyn, reciting one of her lessons. “The grove is the source of her magic, and thus cannot be maintained with it, or the magic would lose its potency.”

“I should think it would be very boring to do all these studies and silly jobs, day after day, forever and ever. Don’t you miss Tristan? And don’t you ever want to go home?”

Robyn caught her breath sharply, for the questions were painful ones. She had come to the Vale nearly a year before and had had no contact with her previous home. Genna insisted that such diligence was the only way Robyn could properly develop her skills. She thought carefully before answering, more for her own benefit than Newt’s.

“I miss him very much—more, each day, it seems. And I want to be with him. Perhaps, someday, I will be. But for now, I must learn what I can of the order of the druids—find out for myself if I am destined to serve, as my mother did and my aunt does, as a druid of the isles. This is something I have to do, and if Genna tells me that the only way I will learn is by performing mundane tasks around her grove, then so be it.”

“Of course,” Newt said nonchalantly. “Tristan’s probably got plenty to do at Caer Corwell, anyway. Festivals and hunts … all those pretty country lasses and barmaids. I don’t imagine for a minute that a prince of the Ffolk would waste his hot summer afternoons in a cool alehouse, of course, but just supposing he.…”

“Oh, shut up!” exclaimed Robyn, more harshly than she intended. Newt had an uncanny ability to aggravate her.

She did miss Tristan. But, she reminded herself, she was doing the
right thing by following in the footsteps of the mother she had never known—the mother that had left her a book and a staff as proof of her druidic legacy.

Wasn’t she?

She remembered the sense of awe and wonder with which she had opened her mother’s book, only a year ago. It had been given to her by her stepfather, King Kendrick of Corwell—Tristan’s father. Through its pages, Robyn had begun to understand the nature of the work she was capable of doing. She saw that she had the power to serve the goddess, Earthmother, and to use druidic magic to maintain the balance of nature in the islands that were her home.

Now she recalled the smooth ashwood staff, plain and unadorned, that had nonetheless become her most treasured possession. Crafted by her mother’s own hands, it was both a receptacle and a tool for the earthpower of druidic magic. Not only had it saved her life, but it had been instrumental in rescuing the kingdom itself from the terror of the Darkwalker. Now it stayed safely within the Great Druid’s cottage, awaiting her need.

Wistfully, she wondered about her mother—as she did so often. Her Aunt Genna had described her to Robyn in such detail that she now seemed completely familiar. Sometimes Robyn felt as though she had indeed known her mother. As always, a great sadness washed over her at the thought that she would never truly know the woman who had brought her into the world.

A sudden sound—the snapping of a dry twig—cracked through her thoughts, and Robyn froze. She knew every creature that visited the grove, and none of them would make such a careless noise. Even Grunt, the cantankerous brown bear who lived with them in the grove, moved his bulk silently among the plants.

The cracking was repeated, and Robyn located its source in a clump of bushes behind her. A sharp prickle of fear ran along her spine, and she reached for the stout stick leaning against a nearby stump. Slowly, she turned.

The bushes rustled, indicating that a large creature was moving toward her. Suddenly, they parted to reveal the staggering figure of a man. At least, she thought it was a man—the shaggy, matted hair and beard, the filthy, spindly limbs, and the dazed, sunken eyes looked
more beastly than human. The creature shuffled forward like an ape, clad only in a tattered rag tied with a crude belt.

But a sound croaked from an unmistakably human throat as the figure collapsed on the ground at her feet.