The Wizardwar (15 page)

The necromancer composed himself. In an eyeblink, his rage-twisted face smoothed out into its usual faint, supercilious smile. “Zalathorm’s downfall would be delightful to behold, but why would I want to destroy the gem?”

Kiva noted the faint flicker of uncertainty in the necromancer’s black eyes. “But you could destroy it, if you so chose.”

The wizard’s lip thinned into a tight line, and for a moment Kiva feared that she had overestimated his power. “It can be done,” he said at last “Three of us created the gem. Its destruction would also require three.”

The elf’s shoulders slumped. “Then you can’t defeat Zalathorm.”

“I didn’t say that,” Akhlaur snapped, stabbing one long finger in her direction. “The crimson star will be difficult to work around, but not impossible. I will rebuild my magical arsenal past anything Zalathorm can command.”

Kiva turned aside abruptly, pretending to be absorbed by the fading outline of Noor’s ghost. At the moment, her own dreams felt nearly as insubstantial.

For many long years, Kiva had assumed Akhlaur would want the gem destroyed, so that he and Zalathorm could fight toe to toe. It had never occurred to her that all three of the gem’s wizardly creators would have to be in accord.

Such accord seemed beyond the grasp of those once-friends, long ago turned mortal enemies. One of these wizards, Kiva held firmly in hand, but Akhlaur was proving more difficult to control than she had anticipated.

Inspiration struck. Akhlaur did not actually claim the three creators must destroy the gem. He merely noted it took three. Kiva reviewed what she knew of the gem and its powers. It protected the three creators-and their descendants.

Their descendants! She knew three of these descendants all too well! Time and again they had evaded death and slipped through traps. If these accursed wizard-spawn could benefit from the crystal star’s protection, perhaps they could also destroy it!

Kiva turned to the necromancer. “I need to go to the king’s city to gather information that may prove useful.”

The wizard dismissed his elven “servant” with an absent wave of his hand. Kiva quickly conjured a gate and stepped out into a prepared location-a deeply shadowed arbor in the public gardens of Halarahh.

She nearly stumbled over a young couple, common laborers judging by their dress, too absorbed in each other to notice her arrival. Kiva picked up the rude knife the lad had set aside. She brought the hilt down hard on the girl’s head, then dispatched the suitor with a quick slash, taking care not to get any of his blood on the stunned girl. Kiva knelt by the girl and gave her head a quick, wrenching twist.

Kiva’s victim was small and slim, and her gown looked to be a near fit for the slender elf. Since the girl had prepared for an assignation, she’d worn a cowl and cloak. This would provide cover for the elf’s telltale hair. Delighted with this unexpected bounty, Kiva quickly claimed her prize. She quickly dressed herself in the dead girl’s clothes and made her way through the deepening twilight to Basel Indoulur’s tower.

A dark-haired young woman in an apprentice’s sky blue robes opened the gate. For a moment Kiva felt that she was still regarding a ghost, so closely did the girl resemble the long-dead Noor.

“You are Lord Basel’s apprentice? The Noor heiress?”

The girl smiled. “I am one of the apprentices, yes, but since I have an older sister I’m not likely to inherit I am Farrah, second daughter of Ahaz and Beryl Noor. How may I serve?”

Kiva glanced over the girl’s shoulder. “Actually, I came seeking another apprentice. A girl known as Tzigone.”

The smile fell from Farrah’s face. “Tzigone was lost in the recent battle. You must be newly come to Halarahh, for her story is sung at every corner.”

At Kiva’s urging, the apprentice repeated the tale. During a pivotal battle, when the Crinti threatened to overrun the Halruaan army and the dark fairies stood poised to pour through a portal and into the fray, Tzigone had not only closed the floodgate but had also dropped the veil between the worlds. She had sacrificed herself, binding her magic with that of other wizards to seal these.

Kiva remembered the jolt of power that had thrown her and Akhlaur free of the Plane of Water. So that was the source of it! She supposed she ought to be glad the timing of Tzigone’s spell had coincided so well with her own, but all she could feel was fury. Once again, Keturah’s little bastard had interfered!

Well, perhaps all was not lost.

“What of Tzigone’s friend, the jordain known as Matteo?”

Farrah brightened. “Another hero. He lives and serves King Zalathorm as counselor.”

A sharp burst of panic sizzled through Kiva, quickly mastered. “I know Matteo. He must be deeply saddened by Tzigone’s loss. What became of his friend Andris?”

“He lives,” the girl said shortly. “He awaits trial for treason, but I hear he was released to Matteo’s keeping. Matteo wished to visit the place where Tzigone disappeared and took Andris as a guide.”

More likely, Kiva thought grimly, he had something more productive than mourning in mind. If she and Dhamari Exchelsor could find a spell that parted the veil to the Unseelie Court, eventually other wizards would do the same.

If that occurred, the three wizard-spawn descendants would be together in one place. That simplified matters admirably.

Kiva fingered the knife hidden in the folds of her stolen cloak and contemplated her next steps. Even though the cowl covered her hair and ears, her face was unmistakably elven. Farrah Noor must not tell anyone that an elf woman had visited, asking questions about Tzigone and Matteo. There were few elves in Halruaa, and the appearance of one at this time and place would hint too directly at Kiva. She could either kill Noor or take the memory from her.

Murder was risky in Halruaa, for it led to magical inquiry. Even memory loss could be reversed.

The elf forced a smile onto her face and thanked Farrah Noor for her time and her kindness. She walked away from the tower and into a side street, where she watched until a sturdily built young man entered the tower by a side door. After a while, lamplight flickered in a room several floors above. Kiva made out the man’s silhouette.

She closed her eyes and brought to mind his face and form, chanting a spell that would cast an illusion over herself. Clad in the young man’s image, she sauntered over to the tower door and knocked.

Again Farrah came to the door. Her dark eyes widened in surprise. “Mason! What, forgotten your key again?”

To avoid telltale speech, Kiva went into a fit of coughing, nodding to show agreement. The girl stepped aside to let “Mason” pass. Kiva pulled the knife and waited while the girl shut and locked the door. When Farrah turned to face her assailant, when the shocked puzzlement in the girl’s eyes turned to fear and supplication, Kiva struck.

Still wearing Mason’s form, she cleaned the dripping blade on Farrah’s robes and made her way up toward the tower room. Mason was already asleep, lying on his back and snoring like a sailor. Kiva took a potion of forgetfulness from her bag. This she poured into the apprentice’s open mouth, drop by subtle drop. When the vial was empty, she dropped it on the floor along with the blood-smeared knife.

When Farrah’s body was found and magical inquiries made, the magehounds would recover an image of the last face Farrah had seen, and they would discover her belief concerning her killer’s identity. Mason, of course, would know nothing about the murder. His convenient loss of memory might be construed as self-preservation on his part, or as one layer of an elaborate deception. Either way, the situation would take some time to unravel.

Kiva intended to use this time well. She began the casting of another far-traveling spell. Before Farrah Noor’s body cooled, Kiva would stand in the Nath, the wild northwestern mountains. By this time tomorrow, descendants of all three of the crystal star’s wizard creators would be in her hands.

Storm clouds rumbled over the wild mountains. Rain fell steadily, and an occasional sizzle of lightning cast brief illumination over the bleak terrain.

Kiva moved through the Nath like a shadow, aided by the keen night vision of her people. She kept alert, for her elf-blooded quarry also had vision well suited to darkness.

Years of acquaintance with the Crinti bandits had taught Kiva their patterns, their habits, their haunts. She quietly made her way through twisting passes and over tumbled stone to a hidden watch post. There stood a tall warrior, a shadowy figure with storm-gray skin and hair, her feet planted wide apart and her face lifted to the wild sky as if to defy the gods.

“Xerish,” Kiva murmured, recognizing the Crinti scout. She reached into her bag and fingered its contents until she found the spell components she needed. Then she rose and shouted out a hail in the mangled, bastardized Elvish dialect the Crinti used with such pride.

The scout whirled, sword out and face wary. Her suspicion turned to joy when Kiva stepped out of her hiding place.

Xerish loped forward and swept Kiva into a crushing, sisterly embrace. “Elf-sister! I am so pleased you are not dead!”

典hat gratifies me, as well,” Kiva said with as much warmth as she could manage. She quickly extricated herself from the Crinti’s arms and held out a small, deeply tarnished silver locket. “I have brought you a gift.”

The Crinti took the trinket and examined it with interest.

“Open it,” Kiva suggested.

Xerish found the clasp. Inside the locket was a crumbling lock of white hair. She lifted astonished eyes to Kiva’s face.

“Relics,” the elf said, confirming the warrior’s unspoken question. “The only known remains of Mahidra, the warrior woman who founded your clan.”

The Crinti quickly put the locket around her neck. Overwhelmed, she drew herself up and saluted Kiva, her fists thumping against opposite shoulders. “I will prove myself worthy of this honor, this I swear. My life is yours.”

That brought a flicker of a smile to Kiva’s face. “Tell me, how did we fare in the recent battle?”

The gray face clouded. “Badly. Many Crinti fell to the Halruaans, some fled the dark fairies. Scouts gather the survivors. We return to Dambrath before the new moon.”

Kiva nodded as she took this in. “The camp is near?”

“An hour’s run, maybe two. I will take you there.” Xerish broke into a long-legged trot. The elf easily fell into stride. When the conical mounts of the fairy hills came into sight, just a few paces away but shrouded in the rain and mist, Kiva fell back, gripping her knees and struggling for breath as if she had been winded by the run.

The Crinti circled back, her face puzzled. Kiva abruptly straightened, flinging out one hand and hurling a bolt of black and crimson energy at the bandit. The magic missile struck Xerish in the chest and sent her hurtling toward one of the mounds. She hit hard, her arms thrown out wide. There she stuck like a bug to flypaper, too stunned to draw breath.

Kiva took tools from her pack-a small hammer and four long, silver spikes. She ran at the stunned Crinti with the grim intent of a vampire hunter. Dull thuds resounded through the chilling rain as Kiva pounded the stakes through the woman’s hands and ankles. Through it all, the magically trapped Xerish did not cry out. Crinti warriors did not acknowledge pain, but her strange blue eyes burned with bewilderment and betrayal.

Kiva rose and began to walk widdershins around the mount, chanting as she went. Finally she came around, held her captive’s accusing gaze, and slapped her hands sharply together. Magic flared like black lightning, and the Crinti woman was sucked abruptly into the mound.

The elf waited expectantly as the dark spell ran its course. A life for a life-Kiva gladly doomed Xerish to the place Crinti feared more than death in exchange for a more useful being’s freedom.

Finally the crackling energy erupted into a second explosive burst. Kiva closed her eyes and turned her head away from the sudden, blinding flair. When she looked back, a wretched figure cowered at the base of the fairy mound.

“No,” Kiva said flatly, staring in disbelief at her prize.

The freed human was not Tzigone-was not even female! A Halruaan male crouched at Kiva’s feet. His pale face bore a distinct resemblance to a hairless weasel, and his scant hair was plastered against his skull by sweat and blood.

Shrieking with incoherent rage, Kiva kicked the wizard again and again. He merely curled up, his arms flung over his head, his thin form shaking with sobs. A familiar talisman flew from his hand. He lunged for it, wrapping the chain around each finger and clutching the trinket as if it were his only link to life and sanity.

As, Kiva suspected, it truly had been.

“Dhamari Exchelsor,” she said with loathing. “Why is it that whenever a spell goes awry, Dhamari is not far away?”

The weeping man suddenly went still. After a moment, he ventured a glance at his tormenter. “Kiva?”

There was a world of hope in that single word. Kiva grimaced. If Dhamari saw solace in her, he must be in very bad shape indeed!

But Kiva was ever willing to improvise. She crouched beside the wizard, crooning silly, soothing words. He took the flask she handed him and drank, hesitantly at first, then with great thirst and greater need. Finally she took the flask from his hands.

“You are safe, Dhamari. I have brought you back.”

Kiva watched him slowly absorb this, watched as his eyes took focus and turned as hard as obsidian.

“Where is Keturah’s bastard?”

The ice in Dhamari’s voice startled her. She sat back on her heels and regarded him. He returned her gaze without faltering, and for long moments Kiva stared into a mirror of her own soul.

“Hatred,” she said approvingly. “A thirst for vengeance. Where is the sniveling weasel I have known and loathed these many years?”

The wizard took her taunting without flinching. “He is gone, as who would know better than you? Together we learned why the Crinti dread the dark fairies. You know what happens to those who pass beyond the veil and return. I have been through a crucible. The dross has been burned away, and my heart’s ambitions have been forged into steel.”