The Wizardwar (4 page)

A scowl darkened the king’s face. He rose from his throne and stalked toward the window, gesturing for Matteo to follow. Courtiers parted as the two passed, watching with furrowed brows as the king broke his own unbending custom.

Zalathorm led the way to a hidden stairwell, where narrow, winding steps spiraled down to the street. These he took at an astonishingly brisk pace.

“With respect, sire, may I ask your intentions?” Matteo called as he jogged after the king.

Zalathorm stopped and shot a glance back at his counselor. “The people outside the palace are waiting for me to settle disputes. This particular one isn’t going to improve with age.”

Matteo would have argued the wisdom of marching into the middle of a street disturbance, but he assumed the king had his reasons. He followed quickly, loosening the peace-ties on his daggers as he went

By the time they reached the street, the situation had devolved into chaos. The elephant whirled this way and that, lunging at its circle of tormenters with short and astonishingly swift charges. Two wizards had cast spells of levitation to lift the terrified children out of the boxlike litter. They were floating, kicking and wailing, toward the frantically outstretched arms of their parents.

Several more wizards advanced on the animal. Small balls of crackling, bluish energy flew from their outstretched hands and exploded against the elephant’s hide with sharp, sizzling pops.

Matteo immediately sensed their strategy: Back the elephant into a walled garden, where it could be easily contained. The animal, though, was too panicked to cooperate. Emitting shrill, trumpeting cries, it began to rear and pitch like a bee-stung stallion.

“Idiots,” muttered Zalathorm.

Since their miniature lightning shockballs were not putting the elephant into retreat, the wizards began to hurl larger missiles. A small barrage of many-colored lights hurtled toward the terrified animal.

The king lifted both hands and slammed his right fist against his left palm. Immediately the missiles struck an invisible wall and were deflected off at a sharply climbing angle, ascending the sky like festival fireworks.

One of these missiles, a bolt of energy shaped like a slim crimson javelin, glanced off the magical barrier and came around in a tight turn, like a fish changing directions in a swift moving stream. It hurtled directly, unerringly, toward the spellcaster who had disrupted its course.

Matteo’s response was part training, part instinct. He leapt in front of the king, his hands lunging for the shaft of the magical javelin. The weapon scorched through his clenched fist-only his deeply inbred resistance to magic kept the thing from burning down to bone.

Even as his fingers closed on the shaft, he twisted his wrist slightly, not trying to stop the weapon so much as to shift it off course. The magic weapon turned broadside but kept its course. Matteo’s right arm jerked free of its shoulder joint in a searing, white-hot flash of pain. He hurtled backward, still holding the crimson bolt, and slammed into a courtyard wall.

Matteo tossed aside the dissipating weapon and reached for his left-handed dagger, ready to protect the king if need be, but in the brief moment it took him to blink away the dancing stars from his vision, Zalathorm had moved to stand beside the elephant.

The king stroked the animal’s bristled gray hide in a soothing manner. When the drover came up to take the reins, Zalathorm spoke a few quiet words. Matteo could not hear what was said, but he noted how the color leeched from the drover’s face. The man backed away, ducking his head repeatedly in quick, nervous bows.

Zalathorm’s gaze swept the quiet, watchful throng. “Many are the tasks before us. Halruaa is equal to them all, so long as our energies are not distracted from the real work at hand. Those of you who require the king’s judgment may wait in peace. Those who came seeking spectacle have been satisfied and can go their way.”

Though the king spoke calmly, his voice reached the outskirts of the crowd. Some of the morning revelers slipped away, others reclaimed their places in line with subdued faces.

Matteo returned to Zalathorm’s side, cradling the elbow of his injured arm in his left hand. “Fine speech,” he murmured. “Many are the tasks before us-and what better way to illustrate this than for the king and his counselor to tend the well-being of a pack animal?”

The king sent him a sharp glance. “If pain prompts you to sarcasm, by all means let us repair your shoulder immediately.”

Matteo managed a small bow. “My apologies, sire. Though I thank you for you kind thought, healing spells and clerical prayers have about as much effect upon a jordain-“

“As flattery has upon a mule,” Zalathorm broke in. “An analogy, mind you, that I find surprisingly apt.”

He took hold of Matteo’s arm and gave it a sharp twist and a sudden, precise shove. Pain exploded in Matteo’s shoulder and skittered along his limbs and spine. As suddenly as it came, it was gone but for a deep, dull ache.

Matteo rolled his shoulder experimentally. “Amazing. I doubt a jordaini battlemaster could have done better.”

For some reason, Zalathorm found that amusing. “High praise indeed!”

He strode toward the palace wall and the stairs, which had suddenly reappeared in a new location. Matteo followed.

“If I may ask, what did you say to the elephant drover?”

“Jaharid? I told him I calmed the elephant by speaking with it mind to mind. I reminded him the elephant is an intelligent, perhaps even sentient beast, and suggested that since he could bear witness to many of Jaharid’s less-than-legal activities, it behooved him to treat the animal with courtesy and respect.”

Matteo took this in. “The elephant told you these things?”

The king sent a quick, amused look over his shoulder. “Our large, gray friend did not offer an opinion concerning Jaharid’s business practices. Few elephants are well versed in Halruaan law.”

“I see. You know this Jaharid, then.”

“Never set eyes upon the man. A simple divination spell yielded his name, along with an interesting image: Jaharid bartering with a Mulhorand pirate for a baby elephant. If you’d had dealings with the Mulhorandi, would you want them brought to light? Mark me, Jaharid will treat the animal well and give it no cause for complaint.”

Matteo considered this. “According to what I know of the Art of divination, this seems an unusual insight. Divination is the study of the future.”

The king lifted one shoulder dismissively. “The seasons pass and return. The future can often be read in the patterns of the past.”

Though the words were prosaic, they sent an image jolting into Matteo’s mind: Tzigone, deep in trance as she sought her own earliest memories, accidentally moving past her own experiences to witness events occurring long before her birth. Zalathorm, it seemed, had unconventional talents of his own.

“You are more than a diviner,” Matteo observed.

Zalathorm stopped and turned. “I am king,” he said simply. His lips twisted in a wry smile, and he added, “At least for the moment.”

He waved away Matteo’s attempted protests. “No wizard has stepped forward with a challenge, but it is only a matter of time. We both know this. Your former patron, Procopio Septus, stands tall amongst the waiting throng.”

Matteo secretly agreed. Still, “Sire, you know I am sworn not to reveal one patron’s secrets to another.”

Zalathorm sent him an inquiring look. “Did I ask you to? Procopio is ambitious. I need no jordain to tell me what my own eyes perceive.”

“Of course not, my lord.” Matteo hesitated, then asked the question that had been harrying him since his appointment. “Forgive me, but why exactly do you need me? I have lived twenty-one summers, hardly enough time to gain the wisdom a king’s counselor requires.”

The king smiled faintly. “Surely you’ve heard the whispers questioning my fitness to rule. Do you agree with them?”

This question startled Matteo, and the answer that came to mind stunned him. Zalathorm waited for him to speak, studying him with eyes that needed no magic to measure a man.

“I’m not sure,” Matteo said at last.

Zalathorm nodded. “Therein lays the answer to your question. An older, wiser jordain would have told me what he thought I wished to hear.”

“If I offend, I beg pardon,” Matteo began.

The king cut him off with an upraised hand. “If you apologize for each outbreak of candor, we’ll have little time to speak of other matters. Honesty is a laudable trait, but let’s agree now that it’s best appreciated long after the advice is given.”

This blunt speech conjured in Matteo’s mind an image of Tzigone’s pert face, her expressive mouth twisted in exasperation at his inability to add “interesting color” to the truth, her big brown eyes cast skyward. Matteo swallowed the sudden lump in his throat and banished the wistful smile from his lips.

“Perhaps you disagree?” the king inquired. “Not at all, sire,” he said, inclining his head in a small, respectful bow. “Indeed, I have heard that sentiment expressed before.”

By highsun, all the petitioners had been heard. The street song dimmed to a somnolent murmur as the residents of Halarahh sought shelter from the midday heat. Sunsleep hours were both custom and necessity in this sultry land.

The king and his counselor, however, did not take time to rest. Matteo followed Zalathorm through a maze of corridors and up winding stairs, past armed guards and magical wards guarding the high tower where Queen Beatrix was imprisoned.

Her small chamber was comfortably appointed but as starkly white as a greenmage’s infirmary. The walls were freshly whitewashed and the carpet quilted from thick pelts of lambskin. White satin cushions heaped the bed, and a long settee had been covered in white-embroidered silk. Here sat Beatrix in profound stillness, immobile as the metal constructs that had been her passion and her downfall.

Despite her captivity, the queen was gorgeously gowned in white satin and cloth-of-silver. An elaborate wig of white and silver curls framed a face as pale as porcelain. Her dark eyes were kohl-rimmed and enormous, startling against the unnatural pallor.

Zalathorm stooped to kiss the snowy cheek. “You are well, my lady?”

After a moment, she responded with a faint nod.

The king sat down beside her and took one of her small, still hands in his. “You are here by my command. In this I had no choice. But I believe nothing that has been said of you.”

The queen lifted her eyes, not quite meeting Zalathorm’s gaze. Though she stared blankly past his shoulder, she lifted her free hand and gently touched his cheek. Overcome, Zalathorm captured the small hand and pressed it to his lips.

Though loath to intrude, Matteo stepped forward. “My lady, do you remember Kiva visiting you, taking away the clockwork creatures?”

“Kiva,” Beatrix repeated. Matteo might have taken this response for a simple echo but for the uncharacteristically grim note that had entered the queen’s voice.

Matteo crouched down so his eyes were level with hers. “You are accused of conspiring with Kiva, and building the clockwork creatures on her command. Were you enchanted?”

“Not by Kiva.”

Matteo and Zalathorm exchanged puzzled glances. The queen seemed unusually lucid, but this pronouncement was unexpected. “By whom, then?”

“Not who.” A cloud passed over Beatrix’s face, dulling the faint light in her eyes. She withdrew her hands from the king’s grasp and folded them in her pristine lap.

“If not whom,” Matteo persisted, “then what?”

A hint of animation returned to her painted face, and she glanced toward him. “Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. What?”

Matteo puzzled this over. The light broke suddenly. “You were not enchanted by a person but by a thing?”

After a moment, Beatrix nodded.

Finally, progress! Matteo sent a triumphant glance toward the king. The expression on Zalathorm’s face sent him rocking back onto his heels.

The king stared at his wife, his countenance deadly pale and stamped with horror. He slipped onto his knees and buried his face in the queen’s lap. His words were faint and choked with emotion, but Matteo caught something that sounded like, “Gods above, what have I done to you?”

After a moment, Matteo went to the door and tapped softly. The guard let him out, and he stood quietly in the hall until the king rejoined him.

“Sire, disturbing though this interview was, we made progress. We should continue.”

Zalathorm shook his head. “You will get nothing more. The moment has passed.”

“Before it did, you learned something important.”

“Yes.” Zalathorm cleared his throat then spun away and stalked toward the tower stairs.

Matteo fell into step and waited, but the king did not elaborate. After several moments, the jordain gave up any pretense of patience. Stepping into the king’s path, he rounded to face him and affixed him with a challenging stare.

“With respect, my lord, you command me to defend the queen but tell me nothing that might aid in her defense!”

To Matteo’s surprise, the king dropped his gaze first. “Magic is not the solution to every problem. Sometimes it creates as many problems as it solves. I was not aware of one of these problems until just now. There is nothing more to tell you.” He held up a hand to forestall Matteo’s ready protest. “Nothing, at least that is not held in silence by powerful enchantments and wizard-word oaths.”

The jordain stood his ground for a few moments more, then fell back with a sigh. A wizard-word oath was sacred, unbreakable. This was not a matter of choice. As a consequence of swearing “by wind and word,” the lips of a Halruaan wizard were magically sealed.

So there it was, then. Matteo’s difficult task had taken a downturn into the realms of impossibility! He had twenty days to uncover a secret the king could not speak, a secret a nation of wizardlords had not uncovered.

Twenty days, and each passing day left Tzigone alone, abandoned in a place of horrors beyond Matteo’s imagining.

After a moment, he realized the king was studying him. “You are thinking of your friend,” Zalathorm stated gently.

Matteo managed a faint smile. “I did not think any but a magehound could plumb a jordain’s heart”