The Last Wizard of Eneri Clare (24 page)

Mark looked stricken, taking in Rel’s point. But Delphine remained radiant, “None of those things mean anything to me.” She took Mark’s hand in her own, “I have all I need right here.” The young man smiled, but tears shimmered on the edges of his eyelids.

Rel turned back to him, pointedly, “You visited with your family? You introduced her to them? And do they approve of this match?”

“They thought an angel had dropped into their home from the sky, and that I must be the luckiest man alive,” he looked down at Delphine, “and I am.”

There was a long pause while Jorelial Rey stood silent, contemplating, arms folded. After what seemed an eternity, she sighed heavily, threw her hands in the air, and pronounced, “Well, it looks like we will be planning a wedding as well as a coronation.”

“Oh, Rel, thank you, thank you!” Delphine flung herself at her sister and embraced her with such force that they nearly both toppled to the ground. Jorelial hugged her back, awkwardly, and then broke free.

“All right. I am
ridiculously
late for this banquet now, but I suppose that could play in my favor. Mark, would you say goodnight to your intended and escort me over there? I want you to point out some of the artists in your circle anyway. I’d like to get to know their names. I will send someone later on for the bags. Tvrdik, would you take Delphine to the kitchen for something to eat – you must both be famished – and then see she gets back to her rooms? May I impose on you one more time this day, my friend?”

“No imposition, my lady – a delight.” was Tvrdik’s reply. “How I love happy endings!” He smiled and offered his arm to Delphine. As the two couples exited into the night, the red-haired girl queried of her escort, “Why are you not invited to the banquet?”

“It’s a long story,” the mage replied, and Jorelial Rey turned back to catch his eye for a moment with a meaningful nod, then hurried away with Mark on her arm.

“Besides,” Tvrdik continued, “big, crowded parties like that are not really my style.”

“Oh, I can quite understand that,” Delphine replied, “I never liked them much myself. Tvrdik?”

“Hmmmm?” She stopped them in the courtyard and looked him in the eye, “In our tradition, at a wedding, it is custom for the bride to be given to her partner at the ceremony by two close family members, representing male and female role models – god and goddess. My parents are not here. My sister will of course take her part as goddess, but, well, would it be too forward of me to ask you to consider standing by me at the ceremony on the other side? It would mean a great deal to me…”

A host of emotions played over Tvrdik’s face, “Delphine, I am greatly honored to be asked, but we have only just met. Surely an old friend of your family, or one of the lords or ministers you’ve known your whole life would be a more appropriate choice?”

“No, there is no one I would rather ask. I know it has only been a week or so, but I felt drawn to you from the moment we first spoke, and I know I can trust you. Somehow I am certain you will be lucky for all of us.”

Tvrdik’s face fell as he realized the irony of her remark about trust. He hesitated, hung his head, then met her eyes, “Delphine, I can think of no sweeter task than to be a part of your wedding. Your faith in me and your friendship warms my heart. But, you spoke of trust, and I cannot permit you to go on believing in me when I have not been entirely honest with you.”

Her brow furrowed, “How so?”

“I am not who or what I told you I was. If you have time now, I should like to tell you everything while we share a bite. It is likely that after you know, you will think twice about your offer, and indeed about whether you still consider me fit company at all.”

Delphine grasped his hand and led him toward the kitchens, “Don’t be silly – it can’t be as bad as all that. Come, tell me your story…I have all night.”

And so, the two of them found a warm corner out of the way of the busy kitchen staff, and away from prying ears. They heaped a plate each of sweet and savory foods, and he shared his tale with her; who he really was and how he had grown up around Theriole, and the tragedy that had resulted in his self-enforced exile in the forest. She sat with rapt attention and wide eyes while he told of Xaarus’ sudden reappearance and his own recruitment to a mission. He told of his completed education, of Xaarus’ instruction to find Jorelial Rey; shared with her the story of his journey back to court with Ondine, and all about his first meeting with the Lady Regent on that fateful recent night, and with the dragon Tashroth the following day. He spoke of the days he had spent repairing and restoring Xaarus’ old cottage, and the nights reading, studying, and practicing for the conflict ahead. He told her what had happened that day at the council meeting, and what they expected they would encounter in the coming weeks. In Delphine’s trusting gaze, he felt it impossible to hold back, and it felt good, so good, to unburden himself of all the small deceits and misdirections with which he had begun their friendship.

As the story came to an end, he avoided her eyes, expecting her to be hurt and angry at the lies he had told. Instead the girl threw her arms around his neck and wept openly, exclaiming, “Oh, Tvrdik, you poor, dear man! Welcome home at last. How hard it all must have been for you. You will never be alone again – we will make sure of it. And thank you for all you are doing for my sister. She needs someone to stand by her, and support her, and listen to her, and help her connect with her best self. Not ministers and advisors; I mean a real friend. She has so few friends. And as far as your plan goes, Mark and I are solidly against using violence to solve things. We fancy ourselves to be creators at heart, not destroyers, and I know he will be excited about this idea you propose, quite as much as I am. I never really knew Xaarus – at least I was so young that I barely remember him. But I know you, and if you say this is what must be done, I believe you. We will all help. Consider us allies in your quest. And please, please,
do
consent to give me away at my wedding…” She sidled up to him with a coy expression, “I shall be the only girl in the realm with a real wizard at my ceremony.” She giggled, then whispered to him, “I should dearly love to see some real magic…”

“All at the right time, my dear, all at the right time…”

“And to meet a real water sprite.”

“That too. But even you sister doesn’t know about Ondine yet.”

“Ooooo! I love secrets.” She beamed.

Tvrdik frowned, “Then you are not angry that I lied to you about my coming here?”

“You were not at liberty to tell the truth then, and actually, I’m not at all sure I would have believed you. How could I be angry? Tvrdik?”

“Hmmmm?”

“It’s not your words that I trust so easily, but your eyes. They are sad, you know, and a little lost, but kind. I know you would never hurt me.”

He looked at her once again, amazed at the simplicity and depth of Delphine’s insight, and the breadth of her heart, and then he hugged her tightly, drinking in the goodness of unconditional love like a man dying of thirst. “I would be honored to help give you away, dear Delphine, and may you ever find your bliss and your heart’s desire in this union.”

Plates empty now and confessions complete, they realized their extreme weariness. He walked her to her chambers in the palace, and just before bidding her goodnight, Tvrdik reached into thin air and presented her with a little bouquet of spring flowers. She gasped in delight, and hugged him again, “Thank you, my dear wizard,” she whispered, and slipped inside. Somehow, the wizard found his way back to his own room, his head reeling with images of all that had transpired that day. Bone tired, and only half aware of what he was doing, he washed and changed and fell into the soft bed, replaying those images in confused bits and pieces in his dreams.

Lord Drogue stood quite still, hands clasped behind his back, gazing up at a large portrait of a man with a fierce expression. The figure on the painting was slight, with long, black hair, a beard, and pronounced eyebrows knitted over intense eyes that stared out at the viewer. He was dressed in clothing long out of fashion, holding a very large antique sword in his left hand, the point facing straight up, but poised for action. Behind him, the artist had filled in a lush outdoor scene, but the sky was stormy, and the tops of trees bent low in a wind one could only deduce from its ravages. Drogue was alone in the hall where his ancestry was recorded in portraiture. Massive gilt-edged frames lined the walls on every side, but it was this image that had all of his attention. The mountain prince spoke aloud, though his only audience was a crowd of painted ghosts from the past.

“How many times have I heard the story, great, great-grandfather? How much a sacred part of our lore it has become: a tale of two noble youths, equal in gifts, and bonded heart to heart. How they played and grew together, studied and sparred together, achieved great things and garnered accolades, side by side. And when the alien hordes came to take Eneri Clare, they united the provinces and beat back the assault together. Each of them performed admirably in battle, each did his part to send the invaders packing. Both were wounded in brave struggle. And yet, when the dust settled, and peace returned to a unified land, only one of them was named king. The other was relegated to a remote, undeveloped land, where the labors of wresting fields, estates, and precious metals from the reluctant earth sapped his strength, and ended his life before it had run a fair course. Why was that, great, great-grandfather? Why did the golden house of Darian assume the crown, while the house of Drogue was made to wring every drop of its wealth from the hard earth? Hmmm? Did they quarrel, those boys? Was it over a woman? Power? Some ephemeral ideology perhaps, on which they could not agree? You do not yield your secrets to me, my esteemed forebear, but I smell the rotten aroma of betrayal. Darian wanted to rule. Kings do not share, and just like that, enduring friendship becomes irrelevant.”

“Well, you may rest easy in your grave now, great, great grandfather. Our time is coming. The house of Drogue will take its turn at the helm, and I will be the one who sets it there at long last. One hundred years is quite long enough for the line of a false friend to reign. I am about to avenge the indignity you suffered, and take the crown in your revered name. Everything is in place. I have planted the seeds over time, and it will not be long before the fruits of my labors are ripe for harvest. I gave them the opportunity to cede the kingdom peacefully to my superior skills, but they refuse to see the truth. No matter. I will take what has always been ours, more roughly now, and it will not be as pleasant for them. They have made their choice. Ah, grandsire, how satisfying it will be for you to see your descendant take possession of what you were denied so many seasons ago. Perhaps, from wherever you sit now, you will bless the labors of this devoted servant who is the arm and engineer of your triumphant restoration.”

Drogue bowed low with a slight flourish, then straightened and turned away from the portrait, making his way to the door with silent, swift footsteps. He had almost left the room, when he halted, stood still for a moment, as if contemplating his options, then retraced his steps until he found himself before the very last portrait in the room. He lingered, head bowed, for an uncomfortable interval, then slowly raised his eyes to meet those of the portrait’s subject.

This painting was different from all of the others in the gallery, in that it portrayed two subjects, an older man with his arm around the shoulders of a youth. The older man was dressed all in bright cloth of gold, and he could have been a twin of the current mountain prince, save for a more muscular frame, and eyes that were set a bit further apart in his countenance, a phenomenon that made him look somehow kinder than Lord Drogue. There was sadness in those eyes, underscored, as they were, with a hint of shadow, and the arm that rested on the shoulders of the painted youth gave the impression both of ownership and of protection. It was a masterful painter, now forgotten, who had been able to capture so much subtext with mere cloth and color.

The young man in the painting did not bear a close resemblance to Lord Drogue, or to any of the other portraits on the walls. He was tall and well filled out, with broad shoulders, and wavy brown hair that framed an open, friendly face with a genuine smile. Richly dressed, with a touch more lace and ornament than that displayed by his elder, one might assume he favored his mother more truly in both face and temperament.

Lord Drogue smiled, but the gesture did not touch his eyes. “Yes, Father, I could not leave without paying my respects to you, and to my dear brother, Abendor. I trust you might have overheard my intention to take the throne? Doubtless you can scarce believe a ‘worthless, ill-conceived mistake’ such as you always called me, could ever pull off such a stunning achievement. Ah, but you always did underestimate me, father. For you, it was always Abendor. Abendor this, and Abendor that; Abendor the golden child, the light in your eye – a light that was snuffed out once he was gone. Poor Abendor. You never did believe me about the accident, father, did you. But seriously, did you think I was such a monster as to wish harm on my own brother? Hmm? Did you? And if your worst fears were proven true, what did I ever get out of it, eh? Certainly not the transfer of your affection, or any attention from you whatever excepting your contempt. Well, perhaps now, you will turn that noble head in my direction and take notice. You will see your son, your misbegotten, second son, ascend the throne of all of Eneri Clare, a throne he captured with his own wit and strong arm. And, you will perhaps beg my forgiveness for never thinking that I was worthy of your respect. We will see who is worthy in the end, old man. We will see who holds all the aces…” Drogue glared at the portrait one moment more with narrowed eyes, then turned on his heel and strode from the gallery, leading with the top of his head like a bull about to gore and toss aside some frustrating obstacle in his path. Generations of Drogues stared after him, moved by neither his promises, nor his taunts.