Wizard of the Grove (16 page)

“And you're not impressed.”

“You've always impressed me.” He grinned in a way calculated to set maidenly hearts aflutter.

Crystal didn't appear to notice and certainly didn't flutter.

They sat for a while in silence, Crystal staring thoughtfully at nothing, Bryon—whose night sight was very good—staring appreciatively at Crystal.

“Lapus was right,” she said at last.

“Oh?” A wealth of meaning lurked behind the word, for Bryon suddenly found himself very annoyed that Crystal had spent the last few weeks, no doubt pretty exclusively, in Lapus' company. That this bothered him, annoyed him even more.

Crystal continued, oblivious to the inner turmoil of her companion. “Do you know the worst thing Kraydak has done? He's taken away our choices.”

“What choices?”

“All of them. Mother had to become queen. Ardhan had to go to war. I have to fight him. I have no choice in what I do and very little in how to do it. That's the whole problem.”

“No,” Bryon corrected, transferring some of the annoyance he felt at himself to her, “that's only part of the problem. You've got this strange idea that you have to do everything yourself.”

She whirled around to glare at him.

“I do.”

“You think that because you're the last of the wizards, Kraydak is your sole responsibility.”

“He is.”

“You can't and he isn't. One day you'll realize it and you'll have to ask for help.”

“Ask who?” Crystal demanded. “You, perhaps?” Eyes beginning to smolder, she sprang to her feet. He had no right to lecture her like she was a child.

“Why not?” Ridiculously, he felt better now that Crystal was upset. He was back in control.

“There's nothing you could do. You couldn't fight him.”

Bryon had to admit that she was right, he couldn't fight Kraydak and frankly had no intention of doing so.

“I was thinking of myself more in the line of moral support.” He stood up with lazy ease. “I've got to get back to my men, but maybe you should consider it.” He blew her a kiss and was gone.

Gone? She felt vaguely cheated. He hadn't once touched her.

“Consider it?” she shrieked toward the receding sounds of his footsteps. “I've forgotten it already!” Sparks leaped off the ends of hair flung about in frustration. She was one of the two most powerful beings alive, why was she constantly being thrown off balance by that smug, self-centered, overbearing, incredibly good-looking young man?

She danced aside as a blue bolt charred the marble bench and with a furious gesture flung a green one back along its path.

“Stop showing off,” she snarled. “I know you can reach this far, but I've enough on my mind right now without you!” And then she stomped back into Hale's Seat because neither the wizard nor the princess could think of a way to follow Bryon without looking like a fool.

*   *   *

Kraydak considered the green bolt with some surprise. He hadn't been surprised in centuries and he savored the return of the sensation. He
congratulated himself on not attempting to circumvent the prophecy. This was fun.

The bolt had exploded harmlessly against his tower, not even ruffling his defenses, but he was rather astonished that it had gotten that far. The wizard-child showed more strength in her thoughtless response to his prodding than she had at any other time.

For a moment, he contemplated paying her another visit, this time in the mind of her young admirer. His eyes glowed slightly as he dwelt on the likely result of that encounter. But no, he'd made his point and repeating it would be a useless waste of power especially as she was, after all, coming to him. His time would be better spent arranging a suitable welcome for her when she got close enough.

“Perhaps,” he mused, rubbing the scorched mark on the stone, “this young man brings out the best in her.” The corners of his mouth twisted up. “Or the beast.” He wiped his fingers and reentered the tower. “Something to remember.”

T
he Duke of Riven stood on the battlements of his manor and looked north. His brow was drawn down in a scowl and his fingers worried a loose patch of mortar into dust. Somewhere to the north, there was a battle going on and he had chosen not to be in it.

It had been over a week since he had returned his family to the arms of the Mother. For over a week he had sat each night in his father's chair with the War Horn of Riven on his knees, not listening to the old men—his father's counselors—nor the young men—his friends—as they urged him to sound the Horn and ride to war. Even his steward—a solid gray-haired woman whom he thought had more sense—advised him to fight. They were all very anxious to ride into the arms of Lord Death, but he had no intention of allowing it. No intention of allowing more to die for a wizard whose face he couldn't seem to banish from his mind. He wondered how she'd felt when the Horn of Riven hadn't sounded. Betrayed? He hoped so.

He shivered. Riven Seat was high in the mountains and even in summer, the east wind whistling through Riven Pass was cold.

“Milord, dinner is ready if you would come in.”

People were hesitant around him, as if afraid to touch his grief. They didn't know that he'd laid his grief in the pit with the bodies of his family which the wizard—the word was a curse in his thoughts—had preserved. All that he had left was a dull pain wrapped tightly around his soul.

Meals were somber times now. Looking out over the company from
under heavy lids, Riven could almost see the gray pall that hung over the room. Hesitant glances were exchanged, conversations were held in a whisper or not at all. Mostly not at all. This, too, was the wizard's fault. In his father's day the hall had been filled with light and laughter, but she had killed his family and darkness had followed.

After dinner he sat in his father's chair, with the War Horn of Riven across his knees, and stared at the green eyes that gazed up at him from the fire.

“Milord? There's a Scholar here who wishes to see you.”

“I don't want to see him.”

“He says it's very important.”

“I don't care.”

“He says he brings a message from the wizard.”

“What!” Riven leaped to his feet, the Horn falling to the flagstones unheeded. “She dares send someone here?” His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were unnaturally bright. “Oh, I'll listen to a messenger from the wizard, and when he's done I'll have a message or two he can take back with him. Send him in.”

The Scholar was a small, thin man with sunken cheeks and eyes so deep-set they looked like they were hiding under the arching dome of his forehead. His hands fluttered constantly, birds, trapped in the ends of his sleeves.

“Milord,” the Scholar began, then stopped, his eyes darting around the Great Hall, from person to person. “Milord, I have been instructed that this message is for your ears alone.”

Riven waved his hand. “Out!” he commanded.

The men and women in the Hall looked at each other in astonishment and several murmured protests to their companions. Garments rustled as positions shifted, but no one left.

“You should not be alone with him,” protested the steward, stepping forward.

“Why not?”

“Well, because . . .” She couldn't think of a convincing argument. And she really had no reason, just a feeling. “Because . . .”

“I've got my sword, haven't I?” He put his hand to the hilt. “If he tries anything, I'll kill him.”

The Scholar wet his lips nervously. His grayish tongue looked like nothing so much as a large maggot.

“Now get out!”

With a helpless shrug, the steward surrendered and herded the others from the room. One or two tried to argue, but she silenced them with a glare and a gesture and, grumbling, they went. She paused at the door and looked back. Riven stood glaring at the Scholar, his lips drawn back in what was almost a snarl and yet, despite the appearance of frailty, she somehow knew that the Scholar was the more dangerous man. She sighed and closed the door. She could do nothing except keep a guard ready and breathe a quiet prayer to the Mother.

“Well?” demanded Riven when he heard the door close. “What does she have to say?”

“She, milord?”

“The wizard. I was told you have a message from the wizard.”

“I do, milord.” He wet his lips again. “But from the other wizard.”

“The other wizard?” Riven repeated. “What the . . .” And then he understood.

“Wait, milord. Before you call your guards, you should listen to what he has to say.”

Riven had never liked being told what he should do and he had come to like it even less during the short time he had been duke, for there were so many things a duke should do, but some note of power in the Scholar's thin voice stopped the call to his guards.

“I will not listen to treason,” he protested weakly.

“Milord, the Great Kraydak does not counsel treason. He asks only that you continue to do what you have been doing.”

“I haven't done anything.”

“Milord understands exactly. The Great Kraydak asks only that you continue to do nothing. He agrees wholeheartedly with your decision.”

It was nice to be agreed with for a change.

“After all, who is this woman that your people should die for her?”

Riven had often wondered that himself.

“She is responsible for the death of your family.”

“Kraydak crushed the palace,” Riven was forced to admit.

“But only to get to her,” the Scholar said soothingly. “Does that not make her responsible?”

As Riven had said as much himself, he had to agree with the man.

“And so, why should you defend the woman who killed your family?” the Scholar continued reasonably. “This is a battle of wizards. Let the wizards fight.”

Let the wizards fight. Riven had said that all along. “My people may force me to sound the Horn and ride to battle.”

“Would they have forced your late father?”

No, they wouldn't have. Riven couldn't imagine the old duke being forced to do anything he didn't want to. “No,” he said and his fingers curled into fists.

“Are you not the man your father was?”

“Of course I am!” Riven stepped forward, two bright spots of color on his cheeks. “What are you getting at?”

“Only that I had not thought you a worse duke than your father, milord.”

“I'm not a worse duke!”

“Then prove it.” The high-pitched voice of the Scholar had suddenly turned very cold. Caught up in his own heat, Riven didn't notice.

“How?”

“Enforce your will. You do not want to fight, so keep Riven Province from riding to war. Can you do that?” The voice was colder still and a strange light surfaced in the murky depths of the Scholar's eyes.

“Of course I can. I'm every bit as much the duke as my father was.”

“Of course you are. And can you convince your people to resume trade with Melac?”

“As you say, they're my people. If I tell them to resume trade with Melac, they, will.”

“And merchants will not be killed as they cross through Riven Pass?”

“You have my word.”

“Very good.” He was once again an ugly little Scholar with no sign he had been anything else. “You had better get some rest, milord, you look tired.”

“Yes.” Riven passed a trembling hand over his eyes. All of a sudden, a dull throbbing had begun behind each temple. “I'd better get some rest.”

Some hours later, after falling immediately into a deep sleep the moment his head hit the pillow, the young duke was shaken roughly awake.

“Stop it,” he muttered sleepily. “Go away.”

The shaking continued, so, with a sigh, he rolled over. It was very dark in his room, but as his eyes grew accustomed to the lack of light he could make out two figures standing beside his bed.

“Well?” he asked petulantly, after a few moments of mutual staring.

The taller figure leaned over, a menacing shadow in full battle armor. “I'd like to have some words with you, my son.”

“Father?” Riven clutched the blankets so tightly his fingers went white. “But you're with Lord Death!”

“And just who do you think this is?” asked the old duke, indicating the pleasant and disturbingly familiar looking young man standing beside him.

“Lord Death?” Riven's voice cracked on the second word.

The pleasant looking young man smiled—his teeth were very even and very white—and then turned to the old duke. “You have two minutes only,” he said, and politely moved away.

“It's all the time I'll need,” snarled the old duke glaring down at his son, “to deal with this traitor.”

“But, Father, I . . .”

“Traitor to your country! Traitor to your name!”

“But I haven't done anything!” Clutching the blankets, he moved back against the headboard. He had seen this man buried his own height down in the body of the Mother. His heart slammed against his
ribs and the blood pounded in his ears . . . he tried to swallow but the muscles refused to obey.

“And why not? The War Horn has been sent and all you can say is, ‘I haven't done anything.' That much is obvious.”

“She killed you!”

“No one killed me. I died. But Kraydak killed your mother and don't you ever forget that.”

“This is a wizards' war!” Even she had said that. What could mere mortals do in a wizards' war? Better to keep his people here, safe, so no more would die.

“You want to be Kraydak's bond boy and watch your people go to feed his demons? Is that it?”

“No, I . . .” Riven's brow creased and he tried to remember just what the little Scholar had said.

“Well, that's what you've just agreed to.” The old duke sighed. “If I'd known you were going to make such a mess of things, maybe I'd have tried harder to stay alive.”

“It wouldn't have done any good,” murmured a soft voice from the shadows. Both Rivens ignored it.

“You left me alone.” The young man's voice was almost a wail. Fear faded beside the pain. Once again, he saw the healer gently closing his father's eyes.
“He chose, milord,” she said. “I could not save him.”

“So that's it. Maybe I thought you were old enough to take care of yourself. I guess I was wrong.”

“You loved Mother and Maia more than you loved me! You died and left me alone!”

The dead man sighed again and spread his hands, as close to a helpless gesture as his son had ever seen him make. “Your mother was a part of me, I'd have been only half alive without her.”

They stared at each other for a moment, the new duke and the old, both knowing that was as close to an apology as was likely to be spoken.

“And you aren't exactly alone, are you?” The steel was back in the old duke's voice. “You're responsible for an entire province. People depend on you.”

“It's not the same.” Riven's chin came up in a belligerent way that made him look very much like his sire.

“No, it isn't. Tough. You've a job to do; it was mine and now it's yours. I suggest you do it and stop crying over things that can't be changed.”

“Time.” Lord Death stepped forward.

“Just one more thing, milord.” With a frown that held more weariness than anger, the old duke drew back his arm and struck his son hard across the face.

The force of the blow flung Riven almost out of bed and stars exploded behind his eyes. It took him a minute to realize that the continuing light was not inside his head. He opened his eyes and sat up.

The sun shone through and around the green brocade that covered the windows; morning. The room could not have been dark only seconds before. His father and Lord Death had not come to him in the night. It had been a dream, vivid and disturbing, but only a dream.

He lay back against his pillow as his valet came into the room and flung open the curtains. Golden light poured through the tiny panes of leaded glass, banishing shadows and gilding fear.

“A beautiful day today, milord. There's a fog on the heights, but it should burn off in a couple of hours.” The valet turned to face the bed. “And what . . . milord!”

“What is it?” Riven inspected his immediate surroundings. Everything seemed to be in place. He could see no reason for the other man's shocked exclamation.

The valet silently handed him a mirror.

Across his cheek, in the exact shape of his father's hand, was a massive purple and green bruise.

*   *   *

“The pass has been filled?”

“We've just finished it, sir, but I still don't understand why we don't let the Melacians into the pass where we could ambush them.”

“I gave my word they wouldn't be killed in the pass.” Riven smiled.
“I gave no word that the pass would still be there when they came to use it.” His horse fidgeted under him and he let it dance about before bringing it under control. “You're sure the Scholar sent no messages before he was killed?”

“None that we were aware of. If he used magical means . . .”

“No matter,” Riven shrugged. “Kraydak will know of our plans soon enough.”

“Then why not sound the Horn?”

“Why make it easy for him? You'd better get back to your men, we'll be leaving soon.”

“Yes, sir.”

Riven watched his captain ride away and decided to stay a moment longer on the hill overlooking Riven's Seat. A warm breeze blew slowly along the side of the mountain and it carried with it all the smells he wanted to remember when he was in the midst of battle.

“He loved you very much.”

Riven glanced down at the pleasant looking young man—who was still disturbingly familiar. No need to ask who Lord Death referred to. “He has a funny way of showing it.” The bruise had faded a little, but the teeth on that side still ached when he chewed.