The Simbul’s Gift

Instead it had led to sunset and a relic from another time: a generous score of rough-hewn stones rising from the ground like a dragon's teeth. The stallion, normally the most obedient of magical creatures, balked and would not descend the ridge from which they'd first viewed the stones. Just as well: there was little cover between the ridge and the stones where the chattel-kessir had ended their journey.

Lauzoril hid the stallion in the laurel, marking the location carefully in his mind. The trees and bushes were all alike to his eyes, accustomed as they were to the open land of Thazalhar. He liked the place, though, despite the discomforts of whiplash bushes and the countless tree limbs that crossed the stallion's straight-line path at the precise height of a mounted rider's forehead. And as for the Yuirwood's vaunted inhibition of spellcraft: he'd experienced none of it. The usual spells by which he guided the stallion had performed flawlessly, and the enchantment he cast over the horse to hide it yielded a moss-covered boulder as rugged and ancient as the stones beyond the ridge.

Don't believe, the dagger Shazzelurt had hissed in the zulkir's mind while he contemplated his spellcraft. Nothing is what it seems, Master. Nothing is unwatched. Leave, Master. Leave now!

The blade told the truth. The Aglarondan forest was thoroughly haunted—almost as haunted as the rolling hills of Thazalhar. Shazzelurt didn't approve of Thazalhar, either. Hiding himself as he'd hidden the horse, Lauzoril had settled down on the ridge crest to watch the chattel-kessir and wait until the air was dark enough for him to risk getting closer.

In Thay, the art and craft stealth was the province of assassins and though a good many Red Wizards worked as assassins in the hard years after they left their academies, Lauzoril hadn't been among them. He hadn't learned to move quietly until he was living in Thazalhar and wished not to disturb the fragile prairies as he walked through them. The zulkir had always been a good student; he eased down the ridge toward the stone circle unobserved, in advance of the rising moon.

The sense of magic grew stronger with each step, and though it didn't oppose his passage, Lauzoril quickly believed that it could, and in ways a Thayan zulkir would be helpless to counter—a belief that Shazzelurt confirmed continually in his mind until, with an act of will, Lauzoril had made himself deaf to the knife's complaints.

Lauzoril watched an argument brew between two of the chattel-kessir, a brown-haired woman and a brown-skinned man. He wasn't able to grasp its substance: They spoke their own language here, a language he didn't understand. It occurred to the zulkir, as he waited beyond the outer, taller circle, that he might successfully rescue the mongrel youth—even bring him back to the Thazalhar estate to serve his daughter—and be unable to speak with him. The Thayan dialect, though heavily influenced by Mulhorandi, was intelligible everywhere in Faerun, and elven types invariably understood common human speech; the challenge was getting them to admit it before they died of stubbornness.

He hoped it wouldn't come to that. He hoped he'd still have the chance to be the hero for Mimuay; and for the mongrel youth as well, who ought to be grateful to whoever rescued him from the Zulkir of Illusion or the Simbul of Aglarond. With the discovery of the partially looted Red Wizard corpses Lauzoril judged it unlikely that Invocation was behind the snatch. Aznar Thrul would never have left the gold and jewelry behind.

The argument ended with the woman laying down her weapons and entering the inner circle. The other chattel-kessir—crouched behind the tall stones, in the subtle draft of their power, the zulkir had begun to wish he knew what these people called themselves. They had a greater dignity than he'd imagined for them, a greater grace and beauty—even the stubborn woman who didn't want to dance and had been cajoled into leading the others.

Slaves danced in Thay, when they thought they could get away with it, making music on logs, bits of pottery and cast-off furniture, unless they'd been purchased for entertainment. Red Wizards never danced, even romantically inclined enchanters. The zulkir watched, enraptured, as the simple pipe melody grew complicated and wild. The stubborn woman surrendered to the swirling rhythm. She tore her hair and was transformed.