Wizard of the Grove (12 page)

“I have brought the princess as you requested, sir.”

The princess. Much easier to deal with than the wizard. The tension in the room eased and the duke came around the table to take Crystal's hands.

“It's good to see you again, child,” he said. “Though one could wish it were under better circumstances.” He leaned back slightly to look her full in the face although he carefully avoided meeting her eyes. It couldn't hurt to be careful around wizards, even if you had dandled this one on your knee when she was a baby. “You've grown some since we last met.”

“That was six years ago, sir. I was eleven.”

“Ah, yes.” He dropped her hands. “Well, now, your father tells me you know something of what attacked us. We've got to have details if we're to fight this thing, eh?”

Crystal glanced at Mikhail. Her father . . . As one of the six dukes, Belkar had to know the truth of her parentage. Whether he refused to acknowledge it out of disbelief or from respect for Mikhail she wasn't sure, nor did she care for she refused to acknowledge it herself. Mikhail was the father of her heart, all the father she would ever want. She met his eyes. He dropped one lid in a slow wink and, just for that instant, the tasks yet ahead did not seem so impossible.

“Now then,” the duke continued, “what's this you've got to tell us about Melac?”

Crystal discarded the princess with relief. The wizard answered.

“We aren't fighting Melac. We never have been.”

“Could've sworn it was a Melacian put a spear through my leg when I rode with the Elite,” muttered the Captain of the Guard.

“Perhaps. But he was a tool in another's hands. The Wizard Kraydak has ruled Melac since before the Lady died.” In Ardhan, there was, and always would be, only one Lady.

The room erupted into a flurry of questions and exclamations of disbelief. Even young Riven was momentarily shaken from his stupor. Only Crystal and the Scholar remained silent.

When order had been restored, Mikhail turned to the gray-robed man. “You didn't seem surprised to hear that,” he said suspiciously. “You knew about Kraydak? About this wizard?”

The Scholar shook his head. He was as tall as the members of the Royal House, who were taller than most of their subjects, and was thin and wiry, his dark hair streaked with gray.

“No, milord, I knew nothing, but there have been rumors of how the Kings of Melac have a counselor who never dies and through him a weak and struggling nation became an empire. Although there have been no great magics that only a wizard could perform, Melac's armies have had entirely too much help from the elements for it to have been coincidental. The Scholars have studied the ancient wizards . . .” His face twisted suddenly. “After all, they nearly sent the whole world to Lord Death. Of them all, only Kraydak had the power to survive the Doom.” He shrugged. “But I know nothing. Scholars have not been welcomed in Melac or her conquered countries for years.”

“Nonsense,” broke in the duke. “Why, I myself was in Melac not more than a year ago to try to hammer out some sort of treaty and there were plenty of Scholars about then, they certainly looked welcome . . . flitting around like shadows . . . noses in everybody's business . . . gave me the creeps.” He suddenly remembered who he was talking to. “No offense, Lapus.”

Lapus smiled thinly. “None taken, sir.” Then the smile vanished. The Scholar's voice deepened and passion marred its smooth composure. “The gray-robed ones you saw were not Scholars whatever they called themselves. A Scholar has no master but knowledge and lets nothing, and no one, stand in the way of the search for Truth.”

Crystal studied the Scholar thoughtfully as he spoke. He was nothing like the genial teachers she and Bryon had shared as children. His intensity when he spoke of knowledge as the only master was almost fanatical. He reminded her very much of the centaurs. She missed her old teachers, and the feeling of certainty they radiated.

“I am old for lessons,” she began as Lapus finished speaking, “but I have been with the Elders for so long I know little about the ways of Man.” Her eyes, the muted green-gold of sunlight through leaves, locked onto his. “Will you teach me?”

Trapped in the quiet depths of her eyes, Lapus couldn't have said no had he wanted to. A pulse began to throb in his temple. With an effort, he bowed his head and forced his gaze to the tile floor.

“Yes, milady,” was all he said.

Crystal nodded once and turned away. The exchange had disturbed her as much as it obviously had Lapus, for all that had looked out of the Scholar's eyes when she held them with her own was the reflection of a tall young woman with ivory skin and silver hair. She wasn't supposed to see herself in another's eyes, her power looked through to their heart.

The duke cleared his throat and indicated the map on the table. “Lessons will have to wait, child, now we need plans for war.”

“Wage it any way you like,” the wizard told him curtly.

“Crystal . . .” Tayer said warningly, aghast at her daughter's rudeness.

Crystal sighed. She would have to straighten some things out with her mother. “I will have no involvement in the fighting,” she explained.

Tayer looked at her in puzzlement. “But Crystal, you said we were fighting a wizard.”

“I beg your pardon if I've confused you, Mother, but I am fighting the wizard. You fight only his armies.”

“Amounts to the same thing, doesn't it?” snorted the Captain of the Guard. “The wizard . . . his armies?”

“No, it doesn't.”

“Well, what about that mess on the hill then? If that's not fighting a wizard, what is?”

“You didn't fight him though, did you?”

The captain remembered the three mighty and invisible blows that had reduced the palace to rubble. He'd been standing thirty feet away and yet had not been touched, although the sound nearly deafened him. His ears still rang with it. He remembered the stream of blood trickling out from under the crushed stone and how it had lapped daintily against his boot. His ruddy face paled and he shook his head. “No, I didn't. But I would've,” he growled, “could I have got my hands on him.”

“If you'd got your hands on him, you'd be dead.” Crystal moved to the window and lifted her face to the sun. She drank in the warmth and light, saving it up against the darkness to come. She didn't want to be the world's savior . . . she didn't have a choice. Then she sighed and turned back to the gray despair that filled the library.

“The Scholar was right. Only Kraydak survived the holocaust and it took almost all of his great power to do it. He had his life but not much else. He was also afraid that the Doom which took the other wizards might still claim him so, defenseless, he hid. And he stayed hidden for over a thousand years, rebuilding his strength and gradually coming to realize that he had escaped completely. None of the shadows that lurked in dark corners were waiting to claim him.

“When he emerged; he found that people had changed. Having been free of the tyranny of the wizards for generations, they were not likely to bow down to the lone survivor and he was still weak enough to be killed if the mortals were determined enough. Kraydak took another road to the power he craved; he offered his services to the weakest king he could find. Not as a wizard, but as a counselor and a friend. He played on the king's weaknesses, on his yearning for power. He took the king to his tower and offered him the world. The king took
the offer and from that day to this he and his heirs have been figureheads, for the power of Melac is in Kraydak's hands.

“Armies moved out, always attacking where the defenders were weakest, protected by the knowledge that should they begin to fail, fire, flood, or some other seemingly natural disaster would come to their aid. Perhaps they lost a few battles, but they won all the wars. Melac became an Empire.

“Young men and women began to disappear into Kraydak's tower. Those who spoke of resistance or rebellion were visited in the night. The ones who lived went mad; most died.”

“We share a border with Melac,” the duke interrupted. “Why weren't we one of the first attacked?”

“We were. The battle that killed the Lady's love was the beginning of Kraydak's push for an Empire. Fortunately for Ardhan, he forgot to take the mountains into account and his neophyte army had to fight the terrain before they met the enemy. He was new to mortal warfare, and so he lost. He hasn't returned for two reasons. Once he got his people moving south and east, the way of least resistance, momentum kept them moving away from us. The second reason concerns a prophecy, that in Ardhan would be born the last of the wizards and his possible defeat.”

“I always felt Melac was waiting for something,” Mikhail said quietly from where he stood at Tayer's back. “If you studied the border raids, it was the only thing that made sense.”

Crystal nodded. “Kraydak was waiting for me.”

“Well, that makes no sense,” fumed the duke. “If he knew you were coming and you could defeat him, he should've taken the country to keep you from being born.”

“He was bored.”

“He was what?”

“Bored. Everything came too easily, there were no challenges, so he watched and waited and when he thought I would give him a good fight—but not one he felt he would lose—he let me know he knew I was here.”

Crystal stepped back and directed the duke's gaze out the window. Not far away people still moved amid the ruins.

“He destroyed the palace to tell me that the game has begun.”

Nyle, the young Lord of Riven, looked up. His eyes were rimmed in red and the whites were murky from lack of sleep. A piece of chestnut hair hung lank across his forehead. His lips curled back from his teeth and he glared at Crystal from under heavy lids.

“My mother and sister are dead,” he snarled, “and you think it's a game?”

“Kraydak thinks it's a game,” Crystal corrected him gently although her expression remained stern. “I have never been more serious. Much of my family died in the palace as well.”

“He wouldn't even be here but for you! He would've left us alone!”

“Perhaps.”

“Then it's your fault; your fault my mother is dead and my father is dying.” He jerked away from the fireplace and turned toward her. “Your fault!”

“NYLE!”

Mikhail's bass roar blasted some of the glaze from the young man's eyes. He stopped and drew a long shuddering breath.

“Milord?”

“Go see to your father,” Mikhail commanded kindly. “He needs you by him.”

Nyle nodded slowly and began to leave the room, his shoulders bowed under his load of grief. At the door, he paused, and the face he turned to Crystal was damp with tears. “Your fault,” he whispered once more, and then he left.

“I would watch that young man,” Lapus said softly. “If he truly believes that the princess is responsible for the death of his family, he may try to harm her.”

Crystal looked at the Scholar and just a flicker of her power showed deep in her eyes.

“He couldn't.”

Mikhail stared at the closed door for a moment and then turned to
Crystal. He made his voice as impersonal as he could and hoped she would understand it was the prince who spoke and not her father. “I have to ask this—would it make a difference if you left?”

Crystal understood, she'd asked herself that same question. She shook her head and motes of light danced in her silver hair. “No. If I left, he would destroy Ardhan piece by piece until I came back to fight.”

The captain's scarred forehead had been furrowed for some time. Finally figuring out just what he didn't understand, he spoke.

“If this Kraydak never meant to go after us until now, why the raids every year?”

“He was studying us,” Crystal explained. “Studying our land and the way we fight. He wants a challenge not a rout.”

“Sounds like he's got all the angles covered,” muttered the duke. “And this is the man we have to beat . . .”

“No,” Crystal corrected again, almost severely. “This is the man I have to beat.”

“Can you?” Tayer's voice was heavy with fear, fear for her country, fear for her daughter.

Crystal heard. She looked out the window and watched something, someone perhaps, being lifted from the wreckage. The salvation of her people settled more firmly on her shoulders and she braced herself against the weight.

“I hope so.” And then, with a nod to her parents, she left the room.

Bryon stood aside to let her leave, then glanced up at his father. Go with her, said the duke's expression, she shouldn't be alone.

As this agreed perfectly with Bryon's desire, he bowed to the queen and followed.

T
ayer would have no coronation, no robes of gold, and no great feast where the six dukes of Ardhan would come to pay homage to their new queen. She would go on no tour of the six provinces to acquaint herself with her realm. The huge and ugly State Crown was buried deep in the rubble that had been the palace. The dukes would give homage when they met on the battlefield. She would tour only the provinces the army must cross to meet Kraydak's attack. The queen rode at the head of her armies.

“How can you be so sure,” Mikhail demanded, “that the attack will come at the Tage Plateau? What about the Northern Pass into Lorn? They've tried there before.”

“And found it wanting,” Crystal replied, a breeze fanning her hair. “Kraydak's armies will come to the Tage Plateau. That far he has let me see his plans.”

“Has let you see his plans? What in the name of the Mother for?”

“It's my guess he's anxious for the battle and doesn't want me to miss it,” Crystal said dryly. “He'll keep telling me enough to ensure we're in the right place at the right time.” Then she left, taking the breeze with her.

Mikhail looked at Tayer who was plotting the route from Belkar through Hale and up into the mountains. The duke's library had become war room, throne room, and petition room for the new queen.

“How does she know?” Mikhail muttered.

Tayer looked up at him and forced a smile. “I doubt we'd like to
know, my love. I doubt she found out in a manner befitting a princess and the heir to the throne.” The smile vanished and she shook her head. “I can't deny what she is, Mikhail. I've tried never to do that, but she must acknowledge my heritage now as well as her father's and I'm afraid the two will not mix.”

“Why not?”

“The rules are too different.” She tried to remember how it felt to rest safe within the light, offering no resistance, but it had been too many years. Her memories of the Grove, of Varkell, of carrying his light beneath her breast were muted by distance and blocked by her responsibilities to her people. She scrubbed a fine-boned hand over her eyes. “Never mind, I'll speak to her.” She considered the map again. “The War Horns go out today. Aliston can meet us at Hale's Seat, but I suppose Cei and Lorn had best meet us at the battleground.”

Mikhail stared down at his wife. He knew she had a core of strength that seldom showed to those who knew her less well than he, but that strength had been sorely tested over the last few days and he wished he could do more to ease her burdens. “You do that like an old campaigner,” he said at last, because he had to say something.

“I was trained to be queen.” Tayer sighed. “Although with two older brothers it didn't seem likely I'd ever have to use the training.” Her eyes misted and her voice dropped to a whisper as she remembered. “And I'd give anything not to have this chance.”

Mikhail laid his hands on her slender shoulders and squeezed gently.

“I'm all right,” Tayer told him, only a tiny catch in her voice betraying her sorrow. “But now Crystal must be trained as I was. The succession must be secure, especially as we ride to war.”

A vision of his beloved hacked to pieces by enemy swords caused Mikhail to close his eyes in pain. But if Tayer could prepare for the possibility so calmly, could he do any less? He twisted the topic away from the battlefield.

“She won't like it. She didn't like the maid you insisted she have, said a wizard doesn't need a maid.”

“A wizard may not, but a princess does.”

Mikhail smiled as he spoke. “Considering some of the outfits she's expected to wear, I don't see how she can do without one.”

“There are a lot worse things than maids facing her. Although she should've consulted with us first, I'm glad she asked that Scholar to help her. I very much doubt her schooling over the last few years included economics, local histories, diplomacy, protocol,” she paused, “and the making of war and the sending out of War Horns.”

They were back to the battlefield.

“Is there no place for Riven in your plans?” Mikhail asked, suddenly recalling the distribution of War Horns she'd mentioned earlier.

All remaining light left Tayer's voice.

“Riven is set upon joining his wife and child. He forgets he still has one child left living to grieve and goes running back to the arms of the Mother. He doesn't hear the tears of his son or the pleading of his friends. He just lies there, waiting for Lord Death to claim him.” She reached for Mikhail's hand and laid her cheek against his side.

His other hand came around and gently stroked her hair. “This should never have been set on you,” he said softly. “Your life shouldn't be death and destruction but sunshine and birdsong and the laughter of children.”

“Do you regret not having children, Mikhail?” They had long ago given up hope.

Mikhail remembered a tiny girl-child who had clamored to be lifted to his shoulders; her delight at the white pony on her fifth birthday; the day she and Bryon had locked themselves in the dungeon and the entire palace staff had searched for twelve hours before they were found.

“I always felt I had one. In fact, the way Bryon was constantly underfoot, I often thought I had two.” And he remembered the silver tear that had fallen the day the centaur came and took her away. She'd looked back only once and the tear had shone like a star on her cheek. Now she had returned. “I always felt I had one,” he repeated sadly.

A knock on the door boomed through the silence that had fallen as they both considered their daughter and what she had become.

Tayer released Mikhail's hand and he moved to stand behind her, a solid wall against her back.

“Enter.”

The door swung open and the Captain of the Guard marched into the room, followed by two of his soldiers supporting a man between them. The man appeared to have been badly beaten, then kicked into a corner and forgotten for some time. His lips were cracked and bleeding, his eyes swollen shut, and his skin showed purple and black with bruises through his ripped and blood stained clothes.

“Who is he?” asked Tayer as the soldiers dragged him forward.

“This pitiful remnant,” declared the captain, drawing himself up before the table, “is the only survivor of the palace.”

“What!”

“That's right, Majesty. This scum, who beat his own brother to death and was sentenced to die by your father the king—may he rest in the arms of the Mother—survived when everyone else was crushed to a bloody pulp. I've brought him to you for resentencing.”

“Release him.”

“Right, I'll . . .” The captain froze, in the act of turning away. “What?”

“Release him.”

“But, Majesty, he's a convicted killer!”

“He is alive! Too many others are dead and too many others will die. Take him out of here,” commanded the queen, “and release him!”

*   *   *

The Duke of Belkar's late wife had loved flowers and to please her he had extensive gardens planted around all of their residences. After her death, he'd found great comfort in them and often said that in the gardens she still lived.

The garden at the townhouse was not very large, but it was exceptionally beautiful. Crystal—clad now in a style befitting a princess, a gown of palest green with a silver net loosely confining her hair—had found in it much the same peace the duke found; problems could be
temporarily forgotten and demands for the impossible momentarily ignored. She let the healing balm of the spring flowers and delicate lacework of the flowering trees wash over her.

“May I join you?”

Lost in thought, she hadn't heard Bryon approach. Still not quite back, she opened her eyes.

Bryon had been thinking of her as a part of the garden, a rare and beautiful flower with silver petals and the scent of sun-warmed flesh. But when she opened her eyes, the garden disappeared and he was sinking into green fire. Sinking joyfully into green fire. Sinking ecstatically into green fire. Wanting it to consume him.

“Oh, Bryon, I'm sorry!”

He blinked once, twice, and was suddenly looking into a pair of concerned green eyes.

“I was thinking . . . I didn't know you'd be looking at me so directly.”

“What else would I be looking at?” he muttered a little peevishly, but added in a more normal voice when he saw how distressed she appeared: “It's nothing to worry about, I'm all right.”

Crystal drew him down beside her on the bench and searched his face anxiously. If he wasn't all right, she'd never forgive herself. After a moment, satisfied that what he said was true, she sighed and turned away.

“You must never forget,” the centaurs had told her time after time, “that you have the potential to be as great a danger as Kraydak himself.”

Bryon watched the effect of the sigh on Crystal's profile and the sparkle came back into his eyes. She was the most magnificent woman he had ever seen and he had every intention of presuming on their childhood friendship. He took her hand gently between the two of his and carefully, as if it were a timid bird he must not startle, began to stroke it.

“What were you thinking of?” he asked softly.

“About my time with the centaurs.”

“Were you very lonely?”

“At first, but there was so much to learn in so little time. And there were always the breezes.”

“I can't imagine a breeze being much company.”

“That's because you don't know how to listen to them. They hear everything and they love to gossip.” She almost smiled as she looked back at her younger self. “I even gave them names and made up faces for them. There was one that seemed to take a special interest in me, I called him Barrett. Although the centaurs didn't approve—they felt my reality was wide enough without adding to it—I imagined him with black hair and gray eyes. He's still my good friend.”

“He?”

She turned to face Bryon . . . and his black hair and gray eyes. She snatched her hand away and felt her cheeks grow hot, not wholly as a result of the afternoon sun.

“What makes you think I was lonely?” she asked, smoothing the already perfect folds of her skirt.

“For one thing,” and his smile caused two deep dimples to appear, “you used to laugh all the time, but I haven't heard you laugh once since you've been home.”

“There's not much to laugh about, is there?”

“No.” The dimples retreated. “I guess there isn't.” But Bryon knew that wasn't all of it. It was as if Crystal's purpose left no room for anything else. Had she given up her humanity when she took up her powers? He looked forward to finding out.

A chill breeze wrapped around them both. Crystal caressed it with long fingers, her head to one side, listening.

“I have to go.” She stood suddenly. “The old Duke of Riven is dead.”

Bryon hesitated barely a moment and then he rose as well. “I'll go with you,” he said, but it was too late. Crystal had used his hesitation to move quickly toward the house. He followed, but a gust of wind snapped a thorny branch into his path and he lost all hope of catching her when he had to stop and unsnag his breeches.

“Well, Barrett,” he muttered, watching the swing of Crystal's departing hips, “I guess it's between you and me.” He didn't quite hear the breeze chuckle as it sped away.

*   *   *

The War Horns went out that afternoon; north to Aliston, south to Cei, west to Hale, and northwest to Lorn. As well as the horns, each Messenger carried a scroll sealed with the queen's signet. The Horn was a part of the ancient bond between the dukes and the High Court. The scroll carried the plans for war.

The Messengers of Ardhan were chosen from the finest young men and women in the kingdom. The four that carried the War Horns were the best of an exceptional group. They were highly trained, highly motivated, healthy, intelligent, and totally helpless should Kraydak decide to prevent them from reaching their destinations.

“I will be watching,” Crystal assured them, meeting each of their eyes in turn and allowing them each a glimpse of the light. “If you should be attacked, I will be there to protect you.”

And no one questioned the value of that protection save Crystal herself.

The new Duke of Riven also rode out that afternoon. He carried his own War Horn but, instead of a scroll, he had the bodies of his father and sister. His mother's body had not been found.

It was two weeks' hard ride from King's City to Riven; burdened with the heavy wagon the trip would take almost a month. Long before Riven could be reached, the dead would be beyond the point where the living could travel with them. If he wished to take his father and his sister home, the new duke had no choice but to accept the wizard's help.

“They would not be dead but for you,” he said as she stepped back from the task, “and now they will not return to the body of the Mother because of you.”

“When they are placed in Riven's soil, the Mother will take them back,” Crystal told him, trying to forget the feel of dead flesh beneath
her fingers. “Remember, had Kraydak not been waiting for me, Lord Death would have taken them much sooner than he did.”

They locked eyes and although Crystal carefully kept her power masked
(“The people of Ardhan must respect you as well as fear you if they are to be any use in battle,” the centaurs had cautioned her. “It is not advisable to keep reminding them that you are their only hope for a future.
”), young Riven looked away first. With a grunted “Perhaps,” he threw himself on his horse and began the long ride home. The War Horn of Riven hung from his saddle, but even when swearing allegiance to the queen, he had not said if he would sound it.

That night, long after most of the townspeople had gone to their beds and the sounds of the Guards had faded toward the outskirts of the town, a solitary figure appeared in the ruins of the People's Square. In the silver light of the moon her hair seemed to burn, each strand alive with cold fire. When she dropped the cloak from her shoulders, her naked body ignited as well until she seemed a slender silver flame.