The Simbul’s Gift

"This isn't right," Bro whispered to the woman at his side. "If he went to MightyTree, he wouldn't be there yet. He shouldn't be back."

Chayan released his hand and pushed him slightly forward. "Do what you must, Ebroin. I've still got my hand on my spear and an eye for your back."

A spear, Bro thought, wouldn't be much use against his father, but he didn't tell brash Chayan that. He tried to hold onto her confidence, instead, when he returned Rizcarn's open-armed greeting. Rizcarn offered concern for Bro's health and joy for his recovery—all the things that had been missing between them. They came too late. Bro suspected affection now as much as he'd suspected the lack if

it earlier.

He asked about MightyTree. Rizcarn insisted he'd walked day and night.

"Urell wept when I told him about the dirt-eater village. He wishes you well, Ebroin, and says you must come to MightyTree when you're well. He gave me this."

Rizcarn produced a carved black bead. Bro stood still, thinking hard, trying to decide what to believe, while his father added Shali's death-bead to the others on his talisman string and retied them around his neck.

"I sang for her at MightyTree last night, but we'll sing again, tonight, right here, until our hearts break."

There was a catch in Rizcarn's voice, tears on his cheeks, but Bro flinched when Rizcarn embraced him again. Chayan caught his eye. She brandished her spear and Bro followed his father to the center of the camp where a fire burned and a jug of honey wine was waiting. 23

Thazalhar, in eastern Thay Afternoon, the twenty-third day of Eleasias, The Year of the Banner (1368DR)

"Watch closely," Lauzoril told his daughter. "Bubbles have begun to form at the bottom of the bowl. The water will boil soon, just as it does in the kitchen. I rub the mustard oil on my fingertips, then I place my fingertips on the water very, very carefully. Look close: the water rises up to meet my fingers. The oil spreads across the surface without breaking it."

Mimuay scrunched down on the stool she was under strict orders not to leave. Her eyes were level with the bowl rim. "Isn't it hot, Poppa? Doesn't it hurt?"

"Of course. Not all spells hurt when I cast them, but many do. If you wish to be a wizard— especially if you wish to be a necromancer—you must learn to ignore discomfort. Now, I say the catalyzing word—Envision—and lift my fingers."

Mimuay gasped as the mustard oil became a bronze sheen on the water. "It's a mirror!"

"Not yet. It reflects nothing." The Zulkir of Enchantment held his hand over the bowl to prove his point. "I must tell it what to reflect, and quickly, or the magic will fade. Several years ago, I sent a gift to a queen. I gave it a name. Now I want to know what's become of it, so I call its name: Kemzali."

The bronze oil dulled. His daughter sighed with disappointment.

"It takes time, Mimuay. Kemzali is far away."

Usually the zulkir made contact with the knife by mental exercise, but today he was teaching his daughter the most important spell she'd ever learn: the means by which she'd be able to detect the presence of magic. He had to cast spells a rank beginner would be able to detect, which meant his old scrying bowl and burned fingers.

"When did you learn to Envision, Poppa? Were you younger than me?"

He'd given up trying to discourage his daughter and took pride in her questions, her persistence. "Much younger. I told you: I grew up among wizards, not in a home with family around me. My life was learning spells."

"Since I'm starting older, will I ever be as good a wizard as you?"

"Casting Envision spells when I was four didn't make me a good wizard."

She thought hard for a moment. Scowl lines were already forming on her forehead. Lauzoril waited for the next question.

"Were you happy growing up among wizards, without a family?"

Which were never the questions he expected, but he'd committed himself to answering them all, and honestly. "I never thought about it. The wizards taught me. I did what they told me to do." Until he was knowledgeable enough to rebel; then they'd thrown him out of the academy, as every other Red Wizard got thrown out at the end of his education.

"I'm glad you're teaching me, Poppa; not someone else."

"So am I, Mimuay. Now watch the bowl."

Since the Convocation, Lauzoril had kept closer track of the knife that he'd sent to Aglarond's queen. He was certain it was no longer in her possession. Even allowing for the confounded Yuirwood, it had become too easy to trigger its scrying properties without arousing any opposition. The zulkir assumed the Simbul had given it to someone not a wizard. He was disappointed, of course. Although it had never provided him with special insights into the witch-queen's character, he'd enjoyed spying on her and the periodic sense that she returned the favor. It was a sense he had not had in recent days.