The Simbul’s Gift

"Halaern? Trovar Halaern of YuirWood?" Rizcarn squinted. His one eye was still swollen; the other was red where it should have been white. "They would have chosen you, Halaern, if you'd ever listened for their voices." "All I heard was Cha'Tel'Quessir coming back from the Sunglade, year after year, always with the same story, Rizcarn, always: Next year. Next year it will be different. Next year our gods will hear us. We have no gods, Rizcarn. They were taken away from us before we were born. The Tel'Quessir took them and scattered them from one end of the Yuirwood to the other. There's nothing beneath the Sunglade. Nothing that can't be found in the roots of every tree or beneath every rock."

Rizcarn seemed to not hear any of the words the forester had spoken. "You could serve, Halaern. You're young yet. Throw away the witch-queen's gifts, come to the Sunglade and dance with Zandilar."

The Simbul exchanged another glance with her forester. There were Fangers who called her the witch-queen, and traders from other realms who were uncomfortable with a Cha'Tel'Quessir title whose significance they couldn't quite grasp, but by and large, Aglarondans called her the Simbul. Almost all the Cha'Tel'Quessir did whether they liked her or not. Like the inner circle of the Sunglade, the Simbul belonged to them, however little they understood it or her. The Thayans called her the witch-queen of Aglarond—when they were being respectful, which wasn't very often. Though, speaking to Trovar Halaern, trying to entice him to the Sunglade, might incite a Red Wizard's respect, at least until he'd gotten what he wanted.

Halaern removed the verdigrised circlet. "Will you hold this for me, cousin?"

Alassra considered the narrow band of metal as if it had become a deadly serpent. Her hands remained at her side. She directed her thoughts at his mind, knowing he would hear them so long as he held the circlet.

This is nonsense, my friend. You heard him. He's all but admitted he's a Red Wizard. There's nothing the Red Wizards would like better than to claim your life. Zandilar will dance anyway. We don't need Rizcarn; we can go ourselves.

I am elder of YuirWood, my lady; the forest will not harm me, and Relkath himself no longer trusts Rizcarn. I will be safe.

You don't believe in Relkath, Halaern!

I believe in you and the Yuirwood, my lady. Rizcarn will be content now, whatever he has become. He'll go forward without suspicion, we need that—you need that—if we're to have an opportunity to save Bro.

Halaern—Zandilar is going to keep whoever she dances with, I'm increasingly certain of that.

My lady, I have danced with a goddess all my life. I'm not afraid of Zandilar. Halaern offered the circlet again. "Please, cousin, it is my wish."

As your queen, Trovar Halaern, I command you to stop this nonsense at once.

I cannot obey. You speak not as my queen, but as my ladylove. My queen, I know, understands.

Alassra took the circlet and placed it on her own brow for safekeeping. Rizcarn gathered the remaining Cha'Tel'Quessir and led the way to the Sunglade. 27

The city of Bezantur, in Thay Late afternoon, the twenty-fourth day of Eleasias, The Year of the Banner (1368DR)

The first indication that Aznar Thrul's traitorous spy master had of the burgeoning problems in Aglarond had come during the night, when frantic spellbound thoughts awoke her from a fitful sleep. The arcane messages were the same: Something dire and deadly had struck the chattel-kessir mongrels while they marched beneath a hanging storm, and something equally potent had risen up to defend them with lightning.

The spy master had reminded her minions that they remained safe because they were following their orders to lay low, to attract no attention whatsoever until they spied a horse among the mongrels.

After they saw the horse, their orders were different. The vanguard was to act for the glory of Thay. Her second group followed orders for her personal glory and that of their old master, Deaizul. The spy master had tried to pick up the threads of Deaizul's thoughts. He was with the chattel-kessir, within the mind of their leader. There had been problems earlier, problems that she didn't learn about until the damage was done. She tried to imagine her lover and mentor with a half-breed's pointed ears and mottled skin. It would be difficult, but if they brought Aznar Thrul down, then all things would become possible.

Deaizul, though, had been deep in his chattel-kessir identity and hadn't responded to her spell-sent pleas throughout the night. He would, she thought, have been accessible, if the problems were serious and when she couldn't rouse him, she'd gone about her affairs, blithely convinced that nothing truly significant had occurred.