Wizard of the Grove (13 page)

She cupped her hands and lifted them to the moon. White light filled them until it overflowed down her arms then, throwing her arms wide apart, she scattered the light over the rubble . . . and called.

The call was lower than anything that should have come from a human throat. It was deep and insistent and commanding.

On the third call, the earth answered.

The paving stones began to vibrate as a note too low to be heard sang up from the ground. The broken pieces of the palace began to shift and pitch. Waves rippled through them as if they were water, not stone.

The silver figure stepped forward and stood for a moment, not on the stones but on the air above them. Then she began to dance. She moved slowly at first, outlining the perimeter—for everywhere her feet had been there lay a silver tracery—but as the earth's call began to rise, still unheard though felt at temple and wrist, the dance began to move more quickly until she was indeed a silver flame in the moonlight.

As the pattern was completed, the song beat so quickly it seemed it must escape. As the last line was closed, it stopped. The pattern sank into the earth and all the dogs of the town began to howl at once.

Shutters slammed back. Sleepy voices demanded explanations and called at curs to be quiet. Had anyone looked toward the palace they would have seen, not a silver dancer who moved like flame, but a silver birch that lifted lacy branches to the moonlight and swayed in a gentle wind.

The dogs quieted at last, and the town returned to sleep. The dancer descended to the street, picked up her cloak, and disappeared in the shadows.

*   *   *

The next morning, twenty-six sheep grazed in the meadow that had erased the scars of the palace.

“M
y mother will ride at the head of the army,” Crystal remarked thoughtfully to Lapus as they threaded their way through the twisting hallways of the duke's house. Although rain denied them the garden, Crystal was too restless to sit still. “But all I hear talk of is men. The men will do this, the men will do that . . . don't the women fight?”

“Some, but not many.”

“Why not?”

“Someone must see to the day to day running of the land.”

“But why the women?” Crystal was puzzled. “The centaurs always said that the men were in charge.”

“In charge of what?”

“Well . . . the country.”

“And who does that leave in charge of the men?”

Silver brows rose. “The women?”

“Who sees that the men get fed, and clothed, and to council on time? Who teaches them to love, when to be strong, and when to be weak? Who sees that the race continues? Some say that the Mother created women in her image and then created men to give them something to do.”

“Lapus, you're a traitor to your sex!” Her tone was almost teasing. She had somehow managed to keep her whole purpose for existing at a little distance over the last few days of waiting
(“Always remember that you were conceived solely for the destruction of Kraydak.”)
although it was never far from her thoughts.

Lapus stiffened at the word traitor. “I am true only to Truth, milady, and although it is true that men and women are equal in the eyes of the Mother, it is equally true that they are not the same. It does no honor to men that they are better able to facilitate the arrival of Lord Death. Perhaps because a woman better understands how difficult it is to create a life, she becomes less willing to take one. Most of the surgeons and healers that ride with the army are women.”

Crystal dropped into a window seat and stared pensively at her slippered feet. “It appears,” she said, “that I not only have much to learn about being a princess, but someone had better teach me to be a woman as well.” She looked up at Lapus and smiled. “Do you think you could make a woman of me, Scholar?”

The smile was his undoing. For a change, there was nothing of the other world in Crystal's expression, unless it was the innocent beauty of that smile. Lapus swallowed twice and shoved his hands deep in his sleeves to hide their trembling. He opened his mouth to speak, but all he could get out was one word.

“No,” he said. And fled.

Crystal stared at his fleeing back in astonishment. “Did I say something wrong?”

The rain on the window had no idea.

She was still trying to figure out the Scholar's strange behavior when Bryon sauntered by a few moments later.

“What's up?” he asked as he threw himself down beside her, one arm draped negligently behind her shoulders.

“Lapus doesn't want to make me a woman.”

A dangerous glint surfaced in Bryon's eyes and his expression hardened. “He doesn't what?” he asked, his voice stony.

“I think,” said Crystal seriously, making an honest effort to get to the root of the question, “that it's a philosophical problem.”

Bryon's face relaxed as he realized that Crystal had no idea of the double meaning of what she'd said. Such innocence was rare around the court, he wasn't used to it. He shook his head and took himself sternly to task for even momentarily allowing himself to consider that
Crystal and that skinny Scholar with no looks and less personality would . . .

“Forget philosophy, Crystal.” He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek and made his voice a caress. “In my eyes you're a woman already.”

She turned from his touch, not understanding why she felt cheated when his hand dropped. She suddenly didn't feel like pursuing the question further, for a strong suspicion said Bryon had a great deal to do with her recent restlessness.

“They tell me you'll be leaving soon.”

“Within the hour. Father is sending me around the province to help rally the men.”

“Will you be back?”

“No, I'll join the army in Hale. Will you miss me?”

“Of course, I'll miss you,” Crystal said more snappishly than she'd intended. “You're my friend.”

“Ah, friend,” Bryon's eyes twinkled. “A sad word that, when you're hoping for more.”

“More?”

His arm tightened around her shoulders and drew her close. With his other hand he cupped her chin and gently forced her head up. Taking an incredible chance, he held her eyes with his, but the green fires were banked and he saw only a reflection of himself.

Confused, Crystal tried to straighten out the mess Bryon was making of her emotions. She had spent the last six years with the centaurs learning to be a wizard while Bryon, growing from good-looking boy to handsome young man, had been getting an education of a different sort. Centaurs, being immortal, have no love, lust, or desire. Crystal might be able to move mountains, call up demons, and—hopefully—destroy the enemies of her people, but in this area she was totally unskilled. She didn't understand her reactions and she didn't like the feeling that things were out of her control.

She also didn't want Bryon to stop. Whatever it turned out he was doing . . .

She didn't understand that either.

Bryon had no intention of stopping: Their faces were inches apart and her breath moved against his mouth like a warm breeze. He drank in the feel of her, the smell of her, the touch of her.

“Your horse is ready, sir.”

Crystal jumped back, trying to ignore that briefest touch of his lips on hers. Bryon, realizing the moment had been irrevocably shattered, grinned up at his father's footman and got jauntily to his feet.

“Look for me in Hale,” he said and, planting a kiss on her palm, was gone.

Crystal stared down at her hand, the soft pressure of his mouth still clinging to the skin.

“We were children together,” she said to the empty passageway. “He treats me like a whole person, not as just a wizard or a princess. He is my friend.” But she sat until dusk hid her in shadow, considering it.

*   *   *

The Horn carriers had been on their way for three days when Kraydak moved against them. While the truncated court sat at dinner, all the windows in the hall crashed open. The winds roared around the room, causing the lamps and candles to sputter and flicker and the men and women of the court to grab at everything not fastened down.

Crystal leaped to her feet and called the winds to order. They flew to her side and buffeted her about in their embrace. One at a time, she gentled them, heard their messages, and then sent them back out into the night.

When the last of the winds had left, Crystal looked up to see the court regarding her with awe—all except the Duke of Belkar who was dusting off a crusty roll which had been blown to the floor.

“What is it, child?” Mikhail asked, his heart wrung by the expression on his stepdaughter's face. All the recently developed signs of humanity had fled and the wizard looked bleak and cold.

“Kraydak is marshaling great power. He will strike at the Messengers tonight.”

“Now?” asked Tayer. “During dinner?”

Humanity returned for an instant and Crystal raised a silver eyebrow in her mother's direction.

“But you haven't even finished your soup. You can't just run out in the middle of dinner. What will people think? No . . .” Tayer blushed suddenly and dropped her head in her hands. “I'm sorry. Do what you have to.”

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Mikhail asked, laying a warm hand on the shoulder of his distraught wife.

“No.” Crystal shook her head. “What I do tonight, I must do alone. But first thing in the morning, someone had better check . . .”

Tayer seemed to draw strength from Mikhail's touch. “You can stop him,” she said firmly, raising her head and looking her daughter in the eye. “You can stop him.”

“I can only try, Mother.” She'd dreaded the thought of this night and now it had come. The first test. And what hope was there for the future should she fail? She forced herself to walk calmly from the room.

As the door closed behind her the buzz of conversation began again, almost as if it had been switched on by her leaving.

Tayer rose to follow. Mikhail gently guided her back into her seat.

“I could at least walk her to her room,” Tayer protested, but without pulling away.

“I don't think she wants you to.” He could offer little comfort in a room filled with their subjects so he merely held tightly to her hands. “You said she could stop him, now believe it.”

Tayer sighed. “I feel,” she said suddenly, “like a chicken trying to mother a duck, frantically trying to keep my child out of the water.”

*   *   *

Crystal took the steps to her tower room two at a time. She yanked open the door, flung herself into the room, and rocked to a halt at the sight of her maid.

“Is dinner over so soon, milady?” the girl asked, stepping forward. Then she saw the expression on Crystal's face, and her own paled.
“Anna, child, this will not be an easy job,” the queen herself had said, “but the princess must be made aware of her position. No matter what she does, stay with her.”
Wanting nothing more than to retreat from the light that blazed in the princess' eyes, Anna swallowed once and clung to duty. “Shall . . . shall I take your hair down now?”

Startled, Crystal's hand flew to her hair, then she shook herself, as though to free the wizard from the entanglements of the princess. “You must go,” she said, moving away from the door. “I have work to do.”

Anna stood her ground. “I'm sorry, milady, but your mother, the queen . . .”

“Is not here.”

“. . . gave me very precise instructions,” the maid finished, obviously intending to obey them to the letter.

“She instructed you to serve me?”

“Yes, milady.”

“You can serve me best by leaving.”

“I don't think, milady . . .”

Muttering beneath her breath in a language that had not been spoken for centuries, Crystal abandoned her attempt to be reasonable, shoved the frightened but determined servant out into the hall, threatened her with a dire fate should she return before dawn, and slammed the door on her protests.

Then she paused. Why hadn't she reinforced her commands with power? The small fraction needed to control the girl would not have been missed from the night's work and the result would have been much faster than arguing. In the back of her mind, where usually only the centaurs spoke, the memory of her mother's voice spanned the years, instructing a tiny girl-child in the rights of those who served. Uneasily, she slammed the lesson back into the past. She must be only wizard now; divided, she could not hope to win.

With a wave of her hand, the lamps went out and a light flared near the center of the room. A small copper brazier cradled a green flame which danced and beckoned.

The winds raced round the tower and the sounds they made as they wove about each other all said, “Hurry!”

Crystal moved forward and her elaborate dress dropped to the floor with a rustle of silk. She stepped free and into the plain white gown that had risen to meet her. Pins showered to the floor as her hair danced out of complicated braids and flowed down her back. Another two steps brought her to the brazier, but as she was about to sit, she paused, turned, and threw a fine web of power across the door. She didn't trust her mother, and certain others, to stay away. Tucking the gown between her legs, she sank to the floor.

“Hurry!” wailed the winds.

She wiped sweaty palms on her thighs. She had to be in four places at once and she had to defeat a man who had been honing his powers for several dozen lifetimes while she'd had only six short years.

Finally, she looked into the flame.

*   *   *

The first Messenger woke to a sudden weight on his chest. He opened his eyes and the largest crow he'd ever seen cocked its head, dug its talons into his leather vest, and glared at him balefully with a yellow eye. For a moment he thought he was dreaming and then one of those talons ripped through to his chest. The pain was real.

With a startled cry, he flung himself to the side as the wicked beak stabbed for his eyes.

His movement dislodged the bird and with strong beats of its wings it took to the air. The Messenger almost gagged on the carnal odors carried on the down-draft. He'd rolled away from his sword and the bird nearly took off his hand when he tried to reach for it. His fire had turned to embers and so, when he saw it, did his hopes of driving the creature away with flame.

The bird dove again and again and the Messenger soon bled from a number of small wounds. Only by blocking with a saddlebag had he managed to keep it from anything vital. He knew his luck, and the
saddlebag, couldn't hold out much longer. He was winded, fighting for each breath, and the pain and loss of blood were weakening him.

The creature seemed to be taking a malicious delight in his torment.

And then it happened as he knew it would. He faltered, his guard dropped, and the bird moved in for the kill.

He braced himself for the blow, but it never came. A great white body hurtled into him, throwing him to the ground. The crow shrieked in rage, the first sound it had made, and turned to face the intruder.

Both Messenger and bird stared in astonishment at the great white owl that paced the ground between them. Its talons were over six inches long and its wing-span covered more than ten feet. It looked the young man up and down and then, satisfied with what it saw, it launched itself at the crow, its eyes burning with green fires.

The crow was large and its evil purpose strong, but it knew when it was defeated. There was only one thing left—escape.

With long, powerful strokes of its mighty wings, the owl took to the air and quickly climbed above its fleeing prey. Then, with talons extended and gleaming in the moonlight, it folded back its wings and struck.