Wizard of the Grove (14 page)

The two birds hit the ground with an audible thud. Holding the crow securely under one massive foot, the owl bent its head to feed.

*   *   *

A persistent tickle disturbed the sleep of the second Messenger. Tiny balls were being rolled across his face. No matter how many he batted away, more kept coming. Finally he dragged himself up out of slumber to deal with it.

To find the tiny balls were trickles of dirt and the ground below him was giving way. He was sinking, being swallowed by the earth!

Successfully fighting panic, he got his hands beneath him and tried to sit up. The movement made him sink faster. He tried to lift his legs and found he couldn't.

He lay in a Messenger-shaped trench, one foot, two feet, four feet,
six feet deep, flat on his back and looking up at the stars. He did the only thing left to do—he stopped fighting the panic and screamed.

And then the walls fell in.

The earth rolled quickly down to cover him. The bonds that had held him were gone, but that did little good as the world sat on his chest, crushing the breath out of him. Worst of all, he could no longer scream.

His lungs were crying out for air and stars were exploding behind his eyes when he felt the movement at his back. A hundred tiny fingers touched him and moved on. He remembered all the small and slimy things that lived in dirt and began to tremble with terror. Was being buried alive not enough?

He felt a firmer touch.

And then another.

Something grabbed at him and held.

The earth rolled back and he was lifted, gasping and choking, into the night air. He finally came to rest cradled high off the ground in the branches of a full grown silver birch.

*   *   *

The third Messenger was caught in a dream. She was running. At first the way was easy and she covered the ground in long loping strides, but then the path began to climb and her pace slowed. Soon she had to use her hands to scrabble up and over mounds of rock strewn across a shattered hillside.

It was then she became aware that she was being chased. And her pursuers were moving much faster than she.

In the shifting shadows of night, the long, broken path to the top of the hill was doubly treacherous. A misstep, a fall, could mean death.

Not far behind her, something bayed. A dog . . . or worse.

One torturous step at a time, she struggled toward the summit. Her hands and knees became cut and abraded by the sharp edges of rock and her feet were bruised by the shifting masses of stone. Her thighs trembled as she forced them to carry her over one more ledge. And one more.

She was almost to the summit when the baying began in earnest. They were on the scent, her scent, and now the chase would truly begin. With desperate haste she covered the last few yards, but not without cost, for a rock which had seemed solid rolled suddenly and crushed her hand. Whimpering with pain, she pried up the rock and dragged the damaged hand free, leaving an ugly smear of blood on the stone.

Her mangled hand tucked in her belt, she crested the hill and turned, breathing heavily, to look back the way she had come.

Half a dozen animals—possibly dogs, but she doubted it—long-legged and lean with narrow heads and glowing eyes, were just reaching the bottom of the hill. Not very far behind them rode a red-cloaked man on a pale horse. Lord Death, true son of the Mother, the Huntsman who escorted the unwilling dead back to Her arms.

The Messenger knew a terrible fear. She wasn't dead. Why did Death hunt her?

The beasts started up the hill.

She turned and ran. In the distance was a dark line of trees. If she could make the forest, she might stand a chance. She ran as she'd never run before, ran until the soles of her boots were worn through and she left a bloody trail of footprints behind her. Until the stitch in her side was a pain too great to breathe through. Until the bitter iron taste of blood filled her mouth. Sweat ran into her eyes and her wounds and they burned.

Behind, but getting rapidly closer, came the baying of the Huntsman's hounds.

She kept her eyes locked on the trees ahead, but she knew she wouldn't make it. The echoing hoofbeats of a steel-shod horse sounded above the cries of the beasts.

And then, over the pounding of her life in her ears, she heard another sound. Hoofbeats, but unshod and from the right. She risked a glance over her shoulder.

Gaining quickly, but only marginally closer than the hounds, came a white unicorn with silver hoofs and horn. Its nostrils were flared and its eyes flashed green fire.

Her eyes drawn from the path, the Messenger stumbled and fell. As she got to her feet, the unicorn reached her side.

“Get on!” it commanded.

“Wha . . .”

“GET ON!” A flashing hoof neatly crushed the skull of the foremost hound.

The messenger grabbed a handful of silky mane and dragged herself awkwardly up on the broad back. She was barely seated when the unicorn leaped forward, out of the range of the rest of the pack, and landed galloping. The trees which had seemed so far away were reached in seconds. She closed her eyes and held on tightly as her mystical mount wove among them without losing speed or breaking stride. Suddenly a thought struck her, almost causing her to lose her balance.

“I'm not a virgin!” she wailed.

“That's hardly my fault,” the unicorn muttered in reply . . . or it might have just been the wind of their passing.

Abruptly they were out of the trees and then, horrifyingly, they were out of ground. A horse could not have stopped in time, but the unicorn reared and managed to halt on the edge of the cliff. They both looked down.

Many miles below, clouds scuttled about like sheep, herded by a wind they were too far away to feel. They could not see the ground. About thirty feet out from the edge, perched on a marble pillar that tapered into the depths, was the home of the Duke of Aliston, the Messenger's destination.

The unicorn backed away from the edge. “Hang on,” it warned. Powerful muscles bunched and it launched itself forward.

And screamed shrilly as razor sharp teeth tore into a hind leg.

They landed safely, although three legged, and turned to face back over the gap. The pale horse stood at the precipice, the hounds winding about its legs. With a toss of his head, the rider dropped his hood. His red-gold hair shone dully in the moonlight but his blue eyes and smile blazed as he lifted his hand in salute.

The Messenger awoke to find herself staring up at familiar stars with a crushed hand and the knowledge that had she died in the dream, she would be dead indeed.

*   *   *

A cold and driving rain woke the fourth Messenger. He'd camped in a small hollow on a treeless plain and had no protection from the wet. Huddled miserably in his bedroll, he wondered where the storm had come from for it had been a clear, moonlit night when he'd gone to sleep.

The rain fell harder. Soon he was soaked and shaking uncontrollably. It was far, far too cold for a spring night so close to summer. The rain seemed to leech the warmth from his body. He'd lost all feeling in his hands and feet when the wind began to blow. It whipped the sheets of rain viciously about, giving him blessed moments of dryness. Its touch carried the promise of golden sunshine and summer's warmth and the scent of trees, and grass, and forest loam.

Up above, the massive black storm clouds were losing their battle with the winds. They were thinning, being forced apart. Here and there, through sections grown tattered, a star could be seen.

Finally, the rain stopped and the young man lifted his dripping face to the sky. The last thing he saw was the dazzling blue of the lightning bolt as it arced down from the clouds. He didn't see those clouds break up and drift away as harmless vapor. Nor did he see the moon come out and bathe the land in silver light. He was dead.

For a time he lay as he had fallen, one arm flung up to stop the blow, his clothes gently steaming from the heat; then the ground beneath him began to crumble away as he was welcomed back into the body of the Mother. Gently, the earth enfolded him and covered him against the cold. Soon, all that could be seen was a grass-free patch of dirt.

Moments later the patch began to tremble, clots of earth danced and tumbled about. No less majestic than the moon itself, a birch tree rose to mark the young man's grave. Its trunk was a silver headstone and its leaves sang dirges with the wind. From out of the cloudless sky
swooped a giant white owl. It plucked the War Horn from the Messenger's gear and headed north to Lorn.

*   *   *

At dawn, Tayer and Mikhail met Lapus at Crystal's door.

“Majesties,” he said, bowing himself out of their way. “My anxiety for the princess made it impossible for me to sleep. If I can be of assistance . . .”

“Stay if you wish, Scholar,” Tayer replied, worry making her voice sharp. “Mikhail, open the door.”

Mikhail, who had seen Lapus trying to open the door without success as they approached, shot the Scholar a suspicious glance when the latch lifted easily in his hand.

“Oh, Crystal!” Tayer rushed forward and clasped the limp body of her daughter in her arms. “Mikhail, she's been hurt.”

A rust red patch of dried blood stained the white gown and pasted it to Crystal's left calf.

Mikhail knelt, eased the fabric away, and inspected the wound. New pink skin had already formed over what appeared to be an ugly bite.

“It's not bad.” But he carefully did not let Tayer see the damage, for it certainly looked as if it had been bad, whether it was now or not. “It's already nearly healed.”

Crystal's eyes fluttered and opened; the green so washed out that they appeared a pale gold. She gazed around, unsure of where she rested.

“Mother?” Her voice quavered, sounding very tired and very young.

“I'm here.” Tayer stroked the silver hair back from Crystal's face and with a little cry Crystal buried her head against the warm security of her mother's breast. She could take no comfort in duty and responsibility for she had failed.

“I couldn't save the last one, Mother. I was spread too thin. I wasn't strong enough. He died and I couldn't stop it.” She sounded very close to tears.

“Hush,” Tayer softly kissed the top of Crystal's head. “I'm sure you did your best.”

“My best wasn't good enough.” She closed her eyes and the face of the fourth Messenger looked back at her from the inside of her lids. Later perhaps she would mourn him, but now she was frightened. Kraydak had allowed her only a glimpse of his power, but that glimpse let her know she would have been unable to save any of the Messengers had he truly wanted all four dead. He'd been playing with her. If she was her world's only hope, then it appeared they had no hope at all. Just for that moment, she wished she'd not been so thoroughly trained and could give up before she had to face him again.

“So one War Horn will not be delivered.” Lapus kept his voice carefully neutral.

Crystal's eyes opened and a green ember stirred in their depths as she glared up at the Scholar. “All the War Horns will be delivered,” she told him, struggling to rise. “That, at least, I did.” She put out a hand to steady herself and knocked over the copper brazier. Soft gray ash fell to the floor.

Mikhail offered his arm and Crystal pulled herself to her feet. She staggered and only Tayer's grasp about her waist prevented her from falling.

“You'll feel better after a little breakfast,” Tayer reassured her.

Crystal brushed several black feathers off the front of her gown. “No, thank you, Mother, I've eaten.”

*   *   *

In the old capital of Melac, now the heart of a cruel and corrupt Empire, a blue light flashed from the top of the highest tower and the folk who saw it quailed. Within the upper chamber, Kraydak sat and considered the night's work, hands steepled beneath his chin and blue eyes thoughtful.

“This wizard-child is not as powerful as I feared she might be,” he said at last to the ancient skull that sat on the table before him.

The skull, once a king, made no reply.

“Neither,” he added, rubbing a finger over the yellow bone, “is she an unworthy foe.” She had used only as much power as she needed to defeat him except . . . At the end he had given her a glimpse of what he could do. She had not met it in kind although he was as certain, as only five thousand years of existence could make a man, that she held more power than she'd let him see.

“Perhaps she is wise.” He smiled, his teeth very white even in the red-gold glow that lit the room. “The longer she holds my interest, the longer I will let her live.”

*   *   *

On an afternoon when the sunlight spread over the circle of trees like a golden blanket and the breezes brought the promise of summer, Tayer and Mikhail said farewell to the Sacred Grove.

They stood quietly, letting the peace of the Grove wipe away the darkness that had wrapped about them these last few weeks and touch them with a gentle healing. They had no need to speak, words were so clumsy when a look, a smile, or a touch could say all that was necessary.

As the shadows started to lengthen, they clasped hands and headed back to the horses and the war.

I
n the days when wizards were common and not yet too powerful, the War Horns of Ardhan had been enchanted. They weren't the War Horns of Ardhan then, for this was before Ardhan existed as a kingdom, but the enchantment was strong enough to last through the Doom of the Wizards when the ancient world was ripped asunder, making the War Horns one of the great treasures of the resettlement. When raised in answer to a summons from the crown, the call of the Horns would sound in every corner of the kingdom.

As soon as Crystal was certain all the War Horns had been safely delivered, the queen walked out to the center of the “meadow-that-had-been-the-palace” and handed the kneeling Duke of Belkar his Horn. The entire town's population, massed about the edges of the meadow, held its breath as he lifted the ancient Horn to his lips and blew.

The note rose piercingly clear and hung in the air. It got into the blood and bones of the people and hung there. “To war!” it called, and the men and women who moved toward the gathering places moved a little faster.

Cei, then Lorn, then Hale, then Aliston; from the corners of the kingdom all the lords answered the call save Riven.

“He travels very slowly,” Mikhail reminded Tayer as they made their way in procession back to Belkar's townhouse, “and is not likely to answer until he's at Riven Seat and has returned his family to the arms of the Mother.”

What young Riven thought, as he moved slowly across the land
with his preserved dead and his grief, he let no one know. But after the five Horns sounded, he drew even deeper into himself.

The man with the red-gold hair and the brittle blue eyes stood listening within his tower and when it became clear that the sixth note would not be heard, he laughed. Calling a gray-robed Scholar to him, he began to make plans.

“It's probably still not too late to go to Kraydak and surrender,” Lapus said quietly as he and Crystal walked with the rest of the court through the streets. His tone was so matter-of-fact he might have been discussing the raisin buns they'd had for breakfast.

Crystal stopped dead and a minor court official stepped on the train of her gown. She didn't hear his muttered and fervent apologies, for Lapus had kept walking and she had to hurry to catch up. The minor official, thankful he wasn't to be turned into something unpleasant, left the procession at the earliest opportunity.

“I could what?” she demanded of the Scholar when she stood beside him again.

“Kraydak would then rule Ardhan, of course, but it would avert the war and save many lives.”

“It wouldn't avert anything. They'd fight without me.”

“I merely suggested an alternative.”

“Alternative!” Crystal snorted. The day was hot, the ceremonial robes were heavy and she wanted a cold drink. “Lapus, you say some really stupid things sometimes.”

*   *   *

On a hot summer day the court—the queen, her consort, their attendants, the Duke of Belkar, his attendants, the Elite, the Palace Guard, supply wagons, one Scholar, and the wizard—and seven hundred and forty-one soldiers in the newly formed Ardhan army gathered together to set out for Hale.

“Mother, save us,” Crystal whistled softly as she cantered up to the head of the march with Lapus. “They're bringing everything but the scullery sink.”

“Look again, milady. There, on that large wagon . . .”

Crystal looked where Lapus pointed and her eyes widened in astonishment. Touching her heels lightly to the sides of her horse, she rode the length of the column to where the queen stood, going over a lengthy list with someone Crystal assumed was the Quartermaster of the March.

“Mother,” she called. “Is all this really necessary? We go to war, not off on the grand tour.”

Tayer was tired and irritable. Most of the bureaucracy had died in the palace and although the new staff did their best, they had no experience in handling a move of this size. Besides Tayer and Mikhail, only six of the eight surviving upper servants had even seen a grand tour. No one since the time of the Lady had moved the court to war. Work the queen would normally delegate to someone else, she had to do herself.

“Yes,” she snapped, “it is all really necessary. You may be able to conjure food and shelter out of thin air and the Elite may be ready to travel for days on journey bread and water, the rest of us mere mortals cannot.”

Crystal jerked back in the saddle. She hadn't thought her gentle mother capable of that tone of voice.

“But we'll travel so slowly . . .”

“Kraydak has waited for you for hundreds of years, I doubt he'll care about a few more weeks.” Then she turned back to the lists, clearly dismissing her daughter.

Sighing, Crystal turned her horse, about to head back to her place in line, when she noticed Mikhail standing and staring up into the branches of a large oak. Curious, for her stepfather wore the plain gray uniform of the Elite and his troops were some distance away from where he stood, she moved toward him.

“What do you make of those,” he asked as she reined in. He pointed up at three huge crows perched in the tree watching the departure preparations with beady eyes.

“Kraydak's creatures,” Crystal told him without hesitation. The
carrion stench from them was so strong she wondered it didn't trouble the tree. She took the reins in one hand and covered her nose with the other. “He's probably using their eyes.”

“We'll see about that,” Mikhail rumbled. He waved three archers out of the ranks and they trotted over to his side.

“Do you see those birds?” he asked them.

They did.

“Do you think you can hit them.”

The eldest of the three stared at Mikhail in disbelief. “Meaning no disrespect, milord, but we could hardly miss if we threw the arrows by hand.”

Mikhail grinned and stepped out of their way. “Be my guest.”

The three strung their bows; each put an arrow to the string, and let fly. The arrows traveled about three feet and then burst into flames so intense that they fell to the ground as a light shower of ash.

“Again,” Mikhail commanded.

The same thing happened.

The archers stood shuffling their feet nervously. They didn't like fighting wizardry, especially when it was so obvious that they couldn't fight it. As one, their lips moved in a brief prayer to the Mother and they turned to stare at Crystal. Easily readable on their faces was the memory of the words she'd spoken to the assembled army the night before: “Remember, you won't be fighting the wizard, I will.”

Crystal moved her horse forward until she sat almost directly under the tree, never taking her eyes off the crows. They stared back, three triangular heads turned to one side so they could each watch her with a bilious yellow eye.

“One chance, Kraydak” she called, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin defiantly. She was acutely conscious of being observed by Mikhail and the three archers. “Recall your servants or lose them.”

“Caw,” replied a crow derisively.

“If that's the way you want it,” Crystal said and her eyes began to glow, “then burn.”

For a very little while nothing happened—the wizard stared at the
birds, the birds stared at the wizard—then suddenly all three crows ignited and disappeared within sheets of flame.

One of the archers cheered as Kraydak's spies were reduced to greasy smears on the tree branch.

“Now that's more like it,” Mikhail laughed, slapping Crystal's leg affectionately. “Well done.” He coughed and waved his hand about to clear the noxious smoke, heavy with the smell of burned feathers and cooked crow. “We'd better get out of this stuff though, if we want to be in any shape to travel.”

Crystal rode back to the head of the column in a much better frame of mind. She'd easily broken through the protective spells that Kraydak had wrapped around the crows. This was what she was meant to do, what she had been trained for. She would have been even happier had she thought Kraydak cared.

The archers returned to their place and told their mates of how the princess had let that murdering wizard know who ruled in Ardhan. The story spread and grew, becoming less accurate but more morale-boosting with every telling.

When the army finally got underway, it traveled as slowly as Crystal had feared. The queen, Mikhail, and the Duke of Belkar, accompanied by their standard-bearers, rode in front. Crystal and Lapus followed, the former letting her mind wander, the latter watching her expressions from the concealment of his cowl. And then came the remnants of the Palace Guard and the surviving Elite, both already recruiting from the body of the army. And then the army of Ardhan, cavalry leading infantry—an order the infantry heartily wished reversed, horses being horses. And then the wagons. And then, behind them all, a crow. Who looked as bored as Crystal felt.

The company kept to the King's Road between Belkar and Hale. It was not the most direct route, but it was the easiest.

“After all,” as Crystal said with quiet sarcasm to Lapus, “there are the wagons to consider.”

The first night, when they camped, the Quartermaster of the March
escorted Crystal to her tent. He ignored her protests when she saw its size, and held open the flap for her to enter.

A curtain divided the tent into two parts. The outer section had been set up as a sitting room and furnished with several ornate pieces of furniture. Crystal recognized the large divan with the clawed feet as coming from the Duke of Belkar's townhouse. With a sigh she lifted the curtain and froze. In one corner of the second room was her bed from the townhouse with a fresh change of clothes laid out on the counterpane. In the other was a steaming bath smelling faintly of lilies of the valley, and waiting beside the bath was her maid.

The girl dropped a brief curtsy and managed not to giggle at Crystal's expression.

“Mother!” Crystal protested, barging into the queen's tent after a very unprincesslike dash across the camp. “No one takes their maid to war!”

“Queens and princesses do,” Tayer told her calmly. And that was the end of that.

“As long as we're dragging the tub along with us, I suppose I might as well bathe in it. And actually,” Crystal admitted to Lapus as they traveled, “I'm even getting used to the maid.”

Lapus almost smiled. “They may make a princess of you yet.”

“No.” Crystal's mouth set in a hard line and a green tight flared in the depths of her eyes. “I am a wizard. I have to be.”

“Then you had best learn to be both because, as you well know, you are also the only heir to the throne.”

And Lapus told her the story—which she'd heard many times from the tutors she and Bryon had shared as children—of how the seven dukes and their people had come out of the North after the War between the Wizards and the Dragons destroyed their lands. They had settled in the land that would become Ardhan. Quarrels had erupted, and holding went to war against holding, duke against duke. When much of the land had been made waste and many people had been killed, the dukes came to their senses and were horrified at what they'd
done. They cast lots and one among them was set up as king over them all, to be a judge, an impartial arbitrator they could bring their quarrels to instead of solving them by the sword. Then the land was divided into six relatively equal provinces which were given the names of the six remaining dukes: Belkar, Cei, Lorn, Aliston, Hale, and Riven. The king gave his name to the land but he would claim no province as his own, all and none of the land was his. The dukes planned a town where each would have a house, a capital city with a palace from which the king could govern. Again they drew lots, this time to choose the province in which the King's Town would be located, and Belkar lost the draw. From that first king came all the Kings and Queens of Ardhan in an unbroken line. The Ducal Houses might branch, but the Royal House stayed true.

The Royal House was the glue that held Ardhan together. It was the country's focus, its stability, and Crystal was the last of the line.

“If I lose,” she sighed, “it won't be a problem.”

“But the prophecy says you may win,” Lapus reminded her. “What then?”

What then, indeed? Would she be willing to give up her power and be a princess for her people's sake? Would she even be able to or would the ways of wizard and princess be fighting within her forever? The weapon the centaurs had forged had nothing of the princess about it; could she hope to win with her powers thus flawed? She had a lot to think about as the army plodded toward Hale.

*   *   *

As the heat of the water worked its magic on muscles stiff from another day in the saddle, Crystal let her head fall back against the edge of the tub and her eyes drift closed.

Oh, you have quite definitely won this point. Mother,
she thought, languidly moving her hands through the scented liquid.

“Shall I wash your hair, Highness?”

Crystal managed a nod and then sighed with pleasure as strong hands lifted the sodden mass of silver hair, added soap, and began to
massage her scalp.
For this,
she decided,
I
would almost agree to be princess.
She gave herself totally over to the skilled ministrations of her maid and let her mind wander where it would.

Contented and relaxed, nearly asleep, she felt the fingers change their motion and the pressure against her head became almost a caress.

“Time to rinse.”

With no more warning than that, her head was shoved below the surface of the water.

“What . . .” As bathwater sucked into her nose and mouth with her involuntary gasp of surprise, Crystal fought to remain calm. She didn't struggle; she continued the motion of her attacker, sinking down to the bottom of the tub and out from under those hands. Then she twisted and rose, eyes blazing, to face her enemy.