Wizard of the Grove (25 page)

“I think I'll start by helping to open Riven Pass.”

“D
o you think she knows what she did?” Doan stretched out a hand and gently touched the trunk of the thirteenth birch. Although it was high summer, its leaves were brown and dry, its branches withered and dead.

C'Tal shook his head. “She thought she built an image, as she did with the others. She could not know that this would come of it.”

“It saved her life.”

“Yes.”

“I wonder, what will become of her now?”

“That is not our concern. We have done all we were meant to do, your people and mine. The Enemy is defeated and the Doom has returned to the stone of which it was made. We may put the last of the wizards from our mind.”

Doan looked up and met the Centaur's eyes. The great black orbs were solemn behind their heavy lids. “You really believe that, don't you?”

“Do you not? We have done,” C'Tal repeated, “all we were meant to.”

“Perhaps we have,” Doan admitted. “But I think you're forgetting something.”

“Forgetting?” C'Tal roared the words so loudly that the dead leaves dropped from the tree before them in a rustling shower. “Forgetting,” he said again in a quieter and much more dangerous voice. “What is it you suggest I have forgotten, dwarf?”

“You've forgotten her mothers. She's unique, but they're a part of her and someday, I'll wager, they'll make their presence felt.”

C'Tal snorted, as always his expressions at their most horselike when he was annoyed. “I remember her mothers.” His voice dropped into a lecturing drone. “Seven were the Goddesses remaining when the Gods had been destroyed. Seven they were and . . .”

Doan raised a hand and cut him off. “Maybe you'd best remember that one or two of them . . .” He paused, snapped a tiny branch from the thirteenth tree and slipped it behind his belt, for memory's sake. “. . . were neither wise nor kind.” Then he raised the hand again in salute and left the Grove.

C'Tal looked down at the withered birch. “Seven they were . . .” he said slowly.

For Fe, who freed the emotions and refuses to let me lock them away again.

I'd like to take this opportunity to thank Doris Bercarich for technical assistance above and beyond the call of friendship.
I
wouldn't have lent me a disk drive.

S
even were the goddesses remaining when the gods were destroyed. Seven they were and these were their degrees:

Nashawryn was the eldest; ebony haired and silver eyed, ruler of night and darkness, concealment and safety held in one cupped hand, a dagger of fear clenched tight in the other fist.

Zarsheiy, who closely followed night in age, ruled fire, and, claimed her dark sister, was ruled by it. Flame her hair and flame her eyes and flame, they said, her heart. Passionate and unpredictable, one moment giving, the next destroying, Zarsheiy's temper was legend amongst both Mortals and the deities they had created.

Most loved of all the seven was Geta, Freedom, who watched her twin brother Getan, god of Justice, destroyed by his wizard son and so hid her grieving face from Mortals all the long years the wizards ruled.

Gentle Sholah held hearth and harvest in the bowl of her two hands. Her dance turned the seasons, and she was the first who dared deny Nashawryn and have Zarsheiy heed her call.

Tayja was Sholah's daughter, carved for her of mahogany from the heart of a single tree by Pejore, the god of art. It was Tayja who dared go into Chaos and bring out the skill to harness Zarsheiy and she who fought always to strike the dagger from Nashawryn's hand. Craft and learning were her dominion and although she demanded much of those who worshiped her, of all the goddesses, save perhaps Geta, she gave the most in return.

Youngest of the seven was Eegri, and on her realm of chance even Tayja's reason blunted. She went where she would; into night; into flame; now revering freedom, now denying it; tripping through field and forge with equal abandon. She had no temples and no priesthood, but her symbol was etched over every door and among mortal kind there were many who lived by her favor.

The last of the seven claimed to have been present when the Mother-creator lay with Chaos and bore him Lord Death, her one true son. She claimed to be more passionate than fire, to be more necessary than freedom, to be the moving force of hearth and harvest, to be more fickle a power than even chance herself. Of craft and learning she claimed to be the strength, lending to poor mortals the incentive to succeed. Her name was Avreen, and she wore both the face of love and of her darker aspect, lust.

As the dark age of wizards ended, these seven were all of the pantheon that survived; no longer worshiped, seldom remembered. But a goddess once created does not disappear merely because her creator has moved beyond and closer to the truth. As they watched the wizards rule, so they watched the wizards die. And they saw that one did not. The most powerful of the wizards, his father the most powerful of the gods long destroyed, still lived. Throughout the many thousand years
during which he hid, the seven watched. When he emerged to rule the earth again, they were ready.

The gods had stood alone, each against his child; and lost. They would stand together.

The Mother-creator's eldest child, immortal first created, died for love of a mortal man. The seven used that love—for was not Love one of them—and formed a vessel into which they poured all that they were. They caused that vessel to present their essence back to the Mother's youngest, to a mortal woman, to the only aspect of all the Mother's creation that was in turn able to create, and she formed that essence into a child.

And the child, unique in creation, won where the gods had failed.

“Y
ou waitin' for someone?”

“No.”

“Mind if I set?”

“Yes.”

The beefy faced man opened and closed his mouth a few times and a wave of red washed out the freckles sprinkled liberally across his nose and cheeks. “Think you're too good ta set with me?” His hard miner's hands clenched the edge of the small table.

“No.” But the tone said yes.

It said other things as well, spoke a coldness that caused the miner's balls to draw up, even under his thick sheepskin trousers.

She lifted her head just a little and let a ray of lantern light fall within the confines of her hood.

The man's eyes widened. For a moment his jaw went slack, and then his sandy brows drew down in a puzzled frown. He knew something was happening; he didn't know what. An instant later, he lost even that and turned away, knowing only that his advances had been rejected.

She lowered her head and her face was once again masked by darkness.

“Not very polite,” said her companion as the miner returned to his own table amidst the jeers and catcalls of his friends. “I never thought to see you use your power on such a trivial thing.”

Crystal shrugged but kept her voice low as she answered. Although
she had no objection to being thought overly proud or even peculiar, it wouldn't do to have the whole tavern think her insane; sitting and talking to a companion only she could see. She said as much to Lord Death, adding: “I wish to be left alone. That is not, to my mind, a trivial thing.”

Lord Death drew his finger through a puddle of spilled ale, making no mark. “And your wish is to be that poor mortal's command?” His hair flickered to a bright red-gold, and for a heartbeat his eyes glowed a brilliant sapphire blue.

The hiss of breath through Crystal's teeth caused several patrons to turn and peer toward the dim corner. She quickly dropped her gaze to her mug of ale until, curiosity unsatisfied, they returned to their own concerns.

“You dare?” she growled when the attention had shifted away. “You dare show that face to me? To criticize
my
actions with it? To dare suggest I walk his road? Kraydak's road?” Kraydak of the red-gold hair and sapphire eyes and silken voice and blood-red hands. Kraydak, the most powerful of the ancient wizards, dead now these dozen years. Her hand had set his death in motion, but his arrogance had killed him in the end. His arrogance. His concern had been solely for himself, all others existing only to serve.

Lord Death sat quietly, chin on hands, watching the last of the wizards work her way through his accusation to the truth. In spite of a parentage that tied together all the threads of the Mother's creation, and more power than had ever been contained in a mortal shell, she was as capable of lying to herself as any other. But she seldom did and he doubted she would now. He'd spent a lot of time with her over the last few years, drawn by something he was not yet willing to name, and he'd come to respect her ability to see things as they were, not as she wanted them to be.

“I'm sorry.” The whisper from the depths of the hood was truly contrite and both slender hands tightened about her mug. The pewter began to bend and she hurriedly stroked it straight. Forgetting how it must appear to anyone watching—and there had been inquisitive eyes
on her since she entered the inn—she turned to face Lord Death. The shadows of the hood could not hide the brimming tears from one who walked in shadow. “I . . . I seem to be losing control of things lately.”

The one true son of the Mother reached out to brush a tear away, but the drop of water slid through his finger and spun down to the scarred tabletop. He sighed and his mouth twisted as he withdrew his hand. “May I give you some advice?” he asked as they both stared down at the fallen tear.

She sniffed and managed a smile. “I don't guarantee I'll take it.”

He smiled back but kept his voice carefully neutral, not letting the worry show. “Find something to do. Kraydak committed his worst excesses because he was bored.” He waved his hand. “Go back to the Empire, there's enough to fix there to keep any number of wizards busy.”

Crystal shook her head and pushed a spill of silver hair back beneath her hood. “I can't. The people of the Empire are too aware of the evil a wizard can do and I am too obviously—” she sighed, “—too obviously what I am. When they see me, they see Kraydak.”

“You destroyed him. They'll come to see you in time.”

“If you expect one act of good to wipe out ten centuries of evil, you expect too much of your people, milord. Even if I tried to make amends for every horror he ever committed—and I did try, in the beginning—they would still see only that I was a wizard, like him.”

“Not like him,” Lord Death reminded her.

“No,” she agreed. “But in his Empire, wizard means terror and they see me as potential threat not savior.” Her voice trailed off as she remembered how her help had been received; how she'd come to use her powers in secret if at all, hiding who and what she was rather than trying to fight the inheritance of fear Kraydak had left her, afraid herself that she would one day lash back and so become what they accused her of being.

Even here in Halda, even though King Jeffrey was a cousin of sorts, she kept her identity hidden. Kraydak's legions had cut through the valley country and a wizard would not be looked on kindly. Amid the
small crowd of men and women who'd braved the weather for companionship's sake, she could see a hook where a hand should be, a patch covering an empty socket—the eye seared out by fire if the puckered ridges surrounding it were any sign—and scars beyond counting. High in the northern mountains, this mining village had been hit less hard than others she'd seen, but once having felt a wizard's power they would not likely welcome it again. Fortunately, the bitter cold—noticeable in the tavern even though fires roared at both ends of the long room—wrapped everyone in the anonymity of heavy clothing and she was not the only one huddled deep within a hood.

A problem to involve her mind and her power would go a long way toward settling the turmoil she'd live in lately; thoughts and feelings boiling beneath the surface, occasionally bubbling up as they had with that poor miner. It seemed, sometimes, as if each individual facet of her personality fought for a life of its own, only rarely, coming together to work as one harmonious whole. There were days when she dreaded opening her mouth for fear of what would come out.

“Perhaps,” Lord Death broke into her thoughts, “you should go home.”

She briefly considered it. Her twelve-year-old brother and the seven-year-old twins were enough to keep an army of wizards busy. “No,” she said aloud, “it's too soon. Mother would be sure something was wrong and she'd fuss.”

“Maybe she could help.”

“Help with what? There's nothing wrong.” Crystal wondered if he could see the heat rising in her cheeks. He sat silently, smiling slightly.
He knows me too well,
she thought, but for some strange reason that pleased her. “There's nothing wrong my mother can help with,” she amended and was rewarded by a fuller smile. “And besides, the adulation of the Ardhan people is as hard to take in its own way as fear and suspicion.”

Fear and suspicion.

Which brought it full circle back to the Empire. Without her help, it would be many, many years before the effects of Kraydak's tyranny were erased from the land and the people—but she suspected that this
slow healing was for the best. Only time would convince those who'd survived the crushing weight of Kraydak's yoke that they were their own masters again.

“The trouble is,” she said at last, “no one needs me.”

Lord Death had no response to that so he merely sat and watched the last of the wizards drink her ale. He enjoyed watching her, not only because she was stunningly beautiful and inhumanly graceful, not only because she was intelligent, witty, and powerful, but because . . . He broke off the thought, as he always did at that point, and glanced around the room. An ancient man, sitting as close to the fire as he could without igniting his old bones, lifted his mug in salute. Lord Death smiled and returned the salutation. He appreciated a graceful exit. A number of the relic's friends peered about, wondering whom he greeted. By the coarse jokes and ribald poking at the old man's supposed gallantry, it was obvious they saw only Crystal. After living their lives in a land where winters were often eight months long, they were well practiced at judging a person's gender despite the heavy clothing.

If Crystal noticed any of this, she chose to ignore it as she ignored the other noises of the crowd, letting sounds wash over her in an undifferentiated rumble. Her table, back in a corner and away from the fires, was isolated, cold, and a little dark. Save for the one miner who'd approached at the drunken urging of his friends, she'd been left alone from the moment she'd slipped quietly back there and sat down. Even the young man who served her ale came back as seldom as he thought he could and shivered the entire time he was forced to linger so far from the fires. He'd asked her once if she wouldn't like to move closer, more for his sake, she suspected, than hers. She'd told him no, and he hadn't brought it up again. If she thought about the cold at all, she welcomed the drafts that skirted her ankles and tugged at the edges of her cloak; they kept the odors of humanity, steaming woolens, and stale beer down to a bearable level. An enhanced sense of smell, part of her heritage from the Mother's Eldest, could be a distinct disadvantage at times.

She wasn't sure why she'd even entered the inn. She had no need of food or warmth; she had no wish for companionship; but when the last
light from the setting sun had picked out the gilding on the tavern's hanging sign and it had flared like a beacon in the fog she'd taken it as an omen.

What kind of omen an inn called The Wrong Nugget would be, Crystal had no idea.

She sighed and let her gaze drift over to the stairs that led to the second floor. Each step dipped from the wearing of countless footsteps and the wood was polished almost white. Any place that kept the stairs so clean, she decided, could be trusted to keep the bugs in the beds to a minimum. Perhaps she would stay the night.

But tomorrow?

Maybe she could return to the centaurs. It had been seven years since they'd taught her the delicate manipulations of the dreamworld. Perhaps enough time had passed that she could handle their pompous and pedantic utterances again. She thought of C'Tal. “Are
you entirety certain that your spiritual growth has proceeded sufficiently for you to be instructed in . . .
” No, seven years wasn't long enough. There had to be something else.

She sighed.

“No one needs me,” she said again, and finished her ale.

“Self-pity makes me sick!”
The voice blazed between her ears, disgust and anger about equally mixed.

Crystal flicked a glance behind her. Only her shadow grayed the rough log wall. Only Lord Death was close enough to have made the remark.

“I beg your pardon?”

Lord Death looked startled at the frosty tone. “I didn't say anything,” he protested.

“You didn't?”

“No.”

She had to believe him. He had never, to her knowledge, lied. She wasn't sure he could. “Then who . . .” She rubbed her forehead with a pale hand. Wonderful, now she was hearing things. Just what the world needed: a useless,
crazy
wizard.

With a scream of frozen hinges and a roar of winter wind, the outer door burst open and slammed back the wall. After an instant of stunned silence, the sudden blast of freezing air brought a number of the patrons to their feet and a bellow of: “Close the Chaos damned door!” ripped out of a dozen throats.

The man who staggered into the light wore furs so rimed with ice it was only common sense that said he wore furs at all. He half dragged, half carried a man-sized bundle, equally white. Just over the threshold, he stopped and swayed and stared, eddies of snow swirling about his feet through the open door.

The men and women in the tavern stared back, caught by his desperation but not knowing how to respond, as the room grew colder and the lamps guttered. Finally, the young server pushed through the crowd and wrestled shut the door, alternately kicking and cursing at the lumps of ice that had followed the stranger inside. When warmth no longer leeched out of the tavern, he placed a tentative hand on the stranger's arm. The man didn't appear to notice. Even blurred by layers of clothing, every line of his body screamed exhaustion. His sway grew more pronounced and he toppled to the floor, curled protectively around his burden.

“Get the poor bugger a brandy,” someone suggested, breaking the silence.

“If yer buyin', I could use one meself.”

“Brandy'll kill'im. Have Inga here give'im a kiss.”

“That'll kill'im fer sure.”

Amid appreciative laughter at this string of wit, the server knelt down beside the body, advice and drunken speculation continuing until one voice above the babble, sharp and clear:

“What is going on out here?”

The tavern fell as close to silent as taverns ever fall, and every head still capable of the motion turned to the kitchen door. Physically, the woman who waited there for an answer was not the type to inspire such quiet. She was short, thin, with close cropped red curls, and a wide mouth—currently pressed into a disapproving line. The apron
she wore over winter woolens was stained, for, proprietor or not, she did much of the cooking herself. A smudge of ash marked her nose. “Who,” she demanded, dusting flour off her hands, “left the damned door open? We can feel the cold all the way into the kitchen. I've told you lot before that I've no intention of heating all of Halda.”

“It's a stranger, Dorses,” the barman called out and the rest of the explanation was lost as everyone tried to shout out their version of events.