Red Magic (16 page)

“They were quiet, though,” Galvin added.

“You could never have heard them approaching anyway,” the centaur offered. “Undead only make noise when they want to.” He smiled at Brenna, then reached a hand up to tug on his own short locks. “You’ve got too much hair, young lady, but the sheep shears I found should remedy that.”

A look of horror crossed her face. “What—what do you mean?”

“I mean you should cut it, shave it off,” the centaur instructed. “You need to look like a native Thayvian, a wealthy one if you’ve got another pretty dress.” He extended the shears to her. “These’ll take off most your hair. Galvin’s scimitar can take care of the rest.”

When the sorceress didn’t take the shears, Wynter dropped them in front of her.

The druid unsheathed his scimitar and ran his thumb along the curved blade. He stared meaningfully at Brenna’s curls.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” she cried, finally realizing what the Harpers meant for her to do. She glanced in alarm at the centaur’s cropped hair. “Shave off my hair? Do you have any idea how much time it takes to get hair to grow this long? I haven’t cut my hair in ten years.”

The druid smiled. “I’ll pose as your slave.”

“You mean you’re not cutting your hair?” she said angrily.

“Slaves have long hair.”

“Listen,” Wynter said, trying to console Brenna. “You’d make a better Thayvian than Galvin. You’ve got the bearing, the social graces.”

The sorceress puffed out her chest, angry at herself for not realizing when the Harpers had discussed this plan in Aglarond that it would come to this. She fingered the shears, crossed her legs, and sat them in her lap.

“I can make myself look bald without shaving my head,” she announced. Concentrating and chanting, the sorceress sat stock still as her face took on a magical radiance. The glow covered her hair, then disappeared, leaving her appearing bald.

Wynter sighed. “Nice try, Brenna, but it won’t work.” He stepped toward her, bent over, and reached forward to feel around her shoulders until he grabbed a handful of hair.

“I can’t see it, but it’s there,” he stated. “Amruthar’s filled with wizards. Some of them are bound to see through your illusion. We can’t risk it. You’ll have to shave it off.”

Brenna’s shoulders sagged. “I know,” she said. “I’m sorry. I should have known I was going to have to do this if I entered Thay.” She gritted her teeth, picked up the shears, and tossed her head forward. Grabbing a handful of hair with one hand and wielding the shears with the other, she began cutting.

“Look at it this way,” Wynter teased. “You’ll be right in style in Amruthar. And if we live through this and you get back to Aglarond, maybe you can start a fashion trend there.” He grimaced as he watched the shears slip in her hand and nearly nick her head.

When Brenna was finished, about a half an inch of hair remained on her head. It was uneven and looked comical, but the Harpers remained straight-faced.

The druid padded forward, knelt in front of her, and held up his scimitar. “Here, let me help.”

Brenna bent her head forward, and Galvin began to scrape the sharp blade across the back of her scalp. The druid was careful, not wanting to cut her. Wynter had told him most Thayvians prided themselves on their appearance, and he doubted that scars were in fashion. When he was finished with the back half of her head, he tilted her neck upward and started to run the knife across the front half of her scalp.

“I don’t know why Thayvians have an aversion to hair,” Wynter said. He wanted to make conversation because the silence in the barn felt uncomfortable. “They’ve been shaving their heads for more than two hundred years. It all started with a few wizards, I understand. Now only slaves have long hair. The longer the hair, the longer someone’s been a slave.”

“You mean everyone but slaves is bald?” she asked softly, looking slightly sick.

“All the wizards, everyone considered wealthy or middle-class tharchions, merchants, and even most of the peasants—they don’t want to be mistaken for slaves. Most centaurs cut their hair as short as mine. Everyone in my family had short hair,” he concluded.

“Was it hard for you to leave your family?” Brenna asked. Galvin winced at that question as he finished shaving the last of her locks. He began to run the blade across her now bald head to smooth it. He was surprised when Wynter answered.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “My family was my life, and the slave plantation was the only home I knew. I had three brothers. They took to the life there. I just never fit in. When I was old enough to make it on my own, I left. I don’t even know if my father ever went looking for me.”

The centaur stood still in the center of the barn. “I cut my ties with my family when I left Thay. I’m only here because of Harper business. When we’re done in Amruthar, I’ll leave again.” The centaur paused and looked at the councilwoman. She was rubbing her head, obviously uncomfortable with the feel of it.

Brenna stared at the pile of red curls in her lap. Ten years’ worth of hair, she thought. No use regretting it. Shrugging her shoulders, she stood up, shaking the curls off her dress.

“Beautiful,” Wynter observed.

Brenna tittered and twirled to brush the last of the hair from her dress. “At least it won’t take me long to wash it,” she said, finally smiling.

The skin on her head was an even, creamy peach tone, free of blemishes. She had a high forehead that glistened in the light that filtered through the barn. The absence of hair drew more attention to her eyes, which Galvin found himself staring into. They were large and round and ringed by long lashes.

Brenna blushed and bent to pick up an armload of hay and deposit it on top of her hair. “A pretty dress, right? That’s all I need to look like a wealthy Thayvian.”

“Almost,” Wynter said. “We’ll have to paint your head first. When you were … sleeping, I gathered some berries and crushed them. They should do fine as long as it doesn’t rain. The important people in Thay—or at least those who think they are—always paint designs on their heads.”

The centaur explained that many men permanently tattooed their heads so they wouldn’t have to bother about changing designs. But many of the women went to shops to have their heads painted, preferring to have different symbols from time to time as fashions changed.

The centaur trotted over to Brenna, carrying a shovelful of smashed blue and red berries. Brenna’s lower lip quivered, but she stood still.

“We’ll give you a dainty little barbed whip cascading over your forehead like a spray of flowers,” Wynter said as he smeared his fingers into the mixture and applied it to her head. “The whip’s the symbol of Loviatar, the Maiden of Pain, one of the regularly worshiped deities here.” Before the centaur finished, he added a lightning bolt with a ball on one end above her right ear. “That’s the Harpers’ symbol for ‘dangerous magic here,’ ” he explained.

Brenna changed into a dark orchid dress with voluminous sleeves and a rounded, lace-edged neckline. She looked striking in it, even with her bald head, and added a crystal and gold necklace to make herself fit the image of a wealthy Thayvian.

“Well, this is it for my wardrobe,” she said with a touch of disappointment in her voice. “I’ve ruined everything else.”

Wynter pushed open the barn door, which teetered precariously on one rusted hinge. The countryside appeared different by daylight. The orchards in the distance yielded the faintest fragrance of citrus blossoms. The sky was as blue as the Sea of Fallen Stars, and it stretched, cloudless, from horizon to horizon. A dirt road that had been sprinkled liberally with white gravel cut through the grass and pointed toward the east. Weeping birch and crimson maples lined the road.

Galvin had expected the countryside to look bleak and the trees twisted like Thay’s evil rulers. Instead, he found it quite pleasant. He glanced at the small clump of trees behind the barn and shuddered, remembering the attack of the undead. Deciding to put some distance between this place and himself, the druid padded toward the road, with Brenna and Wynter following.

The druid could tell that the road was well traveled. Most of the gravel had been washed to the sides by the rain, and carriage and wagon tracks made deep impressions in places.

“Are you certain this leads into Amruthar?” Galvin asked Wynter.

The centaur pursed his lips. “I hope so. Elwin talked about a road before he fell asleep last night. It’s the only one I see.”

Galvin turned to Brenna. “If we’re stopped, Wynter’s the chief foreman on a slave plantation your father owns, and he’s going to Amruthar to buy slaves. You’re traveling with him so you can shop. I’m your slave—on hand to carry any packages.”

“If I’m wealthy, why am I walking?” she challenged.

“You were on horseback,” Wynter stated, “but the horses were stolen by thieves.”

Brenna beamed. “Fine. I’m just looking forward to being in a city again, even if it is in Thay.”

Wynter glanced at the druid. “You’ll enjoy this, too, won’t you, Galvin?”

The druid rolled his eyes, drew his lips tightly together, and continued ambling down the road.

Seven

The lich sat hunched over a centuries-old rosewood desk cluttered with bones of fingers, vials half-filled with assorted dark-colored powders, and yellowed scrolls curling at the corners and covered with runes and scratchings. He peered at the markings with his deep-socketed, ancient eyes and slowly scanned them.

The lich was very old. His pale, paper-thin skin was stretched across his face and limbs, making him appear gaunt, almost skeletal. Fine wisps of white hair were scattered atop his age-spotted head, and his lower lip hung loose, as if it had no muscles to control it. Despite his appearance, the lich was not infirm.

The lich was Szass Tam, the most formidable Red Wizard in Thay.

Across the far edge of the desk, almost beyond the reach of his bony hands, stood five thin candles that had burned down to various heights, none taller than three inches. The wax had dripped into knobby white piles that nearly obscured the candles’ small pewter holders, indicating that the lich had been at his desk for some time. The flickering candles were the only source of light in the immense room, which was a combination library-laboratory, and they illuminated little more than the desktop. The walls were lined with shadow-draped bookcases that stretched to the ceiling, interrupted only by two windows that were shuttered and curtained with heavy black velvet. The thousands of books gave the room its overwhelming smell of old, musty paper; if Szass Tam were alive, the odor might have bothered him.

Although it was midmorning, the lich kept the room bathed in dimness. He preferred the candles to sunlight. Even though the undead Zulkir of Necromancy could walk about in daylight, unlike many other types of undead, he preferred the sepulcher-like comfort of the gloom.

On the center of the desk, where a spot had been cleared atop the gleaming wood, a crystal ball, little bigger than a man’s fist, rested on the wings of a platinum-edged bronze dragon figurine. Szass Tam had many crystal balls, and he used them frequently to spy on various wizards, tharchions, and other forces in Thay. However, this particular ball was his favorite, and perhaps his most powerful. The polished, enchanted crystal was several hundred years old and had originally belonged to the lich’s mentor. Szass Tam had acquired it a long time ago when his magical power increased after he killed his teacher, wresting from the dead man all sorts of arcane devices, elixirs, and books. Dozens of the latter rested on the shelves behind him, their pages now so brittle that the lich avoided handling them unless absolutely necessary. Szass Tam still kept his mentor with him as one of the undead skeletons that patrolled the zulkir’s property. It was not out of a perverse sense of superiority, Szass Tam knew. The lich just hated to let dead bodies rot when they could be animated and made to serve him.

Szass Tam drew his arms about the crystal in a protective and covetous gesture and ran his fingers over the cool, perfect surface. With the lich’s mental coaxing, the sphere began to pulse with light, appearing a thing alive, and colors—azure, rose, gold, and pale green—danced inside it. The ball glowed more brightly, and the lich moved his face closer. His eyes, appearing as hot, intense pinpoints of red light, peered through the crystal and beyond the confines of his keep, past two villages and to harvested farmland. He concentrated, and the colors parted, revealing a puzzling scene being acted out many, many miles away amid dried, broken cornstalks—a spirit naga castigating a unit of gnolls.

The naga, whom Szass Tam had been observing in Zulkir Maligor’s company for the past few years, slithered back and forth in front of a dozen nervous gnolls, gesturing grandly with her arms as her tail swished wildly, obviously berating them for something. Beads of sweat stood out on the creatures’ shaggy brows, causing the lich to wonder what they had done wrong.

“Again!” Szass Tam heard the naga yell, her voice as clear through the crystal ball as if she were standing in the same room with him. “You will try it again!”

The twelve gnolls paired off so that each had an opponent. Half assumed a classic defensive stance that the lich remembered seeing several years ago in one of the military books in his library. The others were clearly on the offensive and moved forward, howling and swinging with the flat of their blades. Szass Tam smiled. The naga was not using the gnoll force well.

Overall, gnolls, which were reasonably numerous in Thay, were savage, and their shaggy, wild-dog visages made them fearsome foes. But they were inclined to fight awkwardly with swords, finding it difficult to wrap their pawlike hands about the hilts of the weapons. Their swings rarely varied, making them too predictable. Szass Tam decided the spirit naga would have been better off leaving them to fight with their claws and long, sharp teeth. It would be more natural for them and probably would have better results. “Civilized” fighting was not always the best approach.

Szass Tam believed his own army to be the strongest in Thay. Skeletons, zombies, ghouls, ghasts, wights, and worse made up the bulk of his forces. The undead required no food, except for the ghouls, which usually ate their opponents. The undead did not sleep, and they were fierce because they were bound to the lich and did not fear death. Like any army, the undead had generals; these were the vampires, who possessed a horrible cunning and cruelty, and they did a superb job of ordering about the undead troops. The lich’s generals didn’t waste time instructing skeletons in the art of swordplay or teaching zombies how to defend themselves. They simply pointed their charges at a target and demanded they move in. The only drawback was that not all in his army were able to move about during the day. Because of this, Szass Tam also relied upon living soldiers.