The Simbul’s Gift

Lauzoril almost lost the image before he could sharpen it: In greatest of imaginable coincidences, the Simbul had taken his work from the jumbled box where she usually kept it. She held it between her hands. An awesome silver heat seared the zulkir's thoughts; but for the wall, he would have fallen.

He whispered the name of the god he worshiped in privacy: "Kelemvor! What manner of magic possesses her?"

The god of death, traditional patron of Thazalhar and, since the demise of both Myrkul and Cyric, preferred deity of Enchantment's zulkir, didn't answer, but the sound of his own voice calmed Lauzoril's nerves. He wrested his thoughts from the Simbul herself and concentrated on the place where she was, the objects around her. A spellbook lay open nearby—another moment and he could have abstracted one of her spells, but his interest lay elsewhere.

Thay.

He let his thoughts mingle with hers.

Thay. The Wizards of Thay.

Nethra came back to him, both the word and images of the city she knew by sight, smell, and sound. Gweltaz had guessed right; Lauzoril's fists clenched in frustration. Then...

Two deaths. A man and a woman. An enchanter and something else. In Nethra. Two dead magicians. Two dead wizards.

Lauzoril's hands relaxed. "Two dead. Bract and his murderer." He was relieved beyond measure but not surprised until he beheld his own face floating in the Simbul's silvery thoughts.

Why? they both asked.

Lauzoril withdrew to Thazalhar without waiting for an answer. 4

The Village of Sulalk, in Aglarond Early morning, the fourteenth day of Eleasias, The Year of the Banner (1368DR)

"Momma was crying last night. Soft, so you wouldn't hear, but I did. She's sad all the time, Bro."

Knee-deep in a stream with a weighted gaff cocked above his shoulder in the hope of swatting an unlucky fish, Bro answered his sister with a soft, noncommittal grunt.

"She says you're leaving, Bro. Are you going to leave?"

"No," he lied.

A shadow flickered in the water. Bro struck quickly, stunning the fish with the gaff and knocking it onto the grassy bank. Tay-Fay approached it warily. She was unnerved by their spines and texture, but Shali and Dent said she was old enough to be useful and that Bro could teach her.

"Why are fish slimy, Bro?"

"They just are. It's easier if you grab 'em from the front."

Carefully following his instructions, she stood behind the basket. "Why don't they close their eyes?"

"Quiet, Taefaeli. You're scaring the fish."

"They don't have ears. How can I scare the fish when they can't hear?"

Bro backhanded the gaff and sent a gust of water at his sister. She screamed and started running. If she'd run toward the village, he'd have let her run and faced the consequences later, but she was going the wrong way.

A few of his longer strides brought Bro within grabbing distance. He swept her clean off the ground, both his hands secure around her waist. She shrieked with delight.

He'd gone another two steps before sound overwhelmed his ears. Thunder, though the morning sky was bright blue and cloudless. Thunder, striking his back like a fist of wind. Bro stumbled as he stopped. Clutching his sister in his arms, he turned: The grass and bushes, the trees themselves, all bent to the mighty rumbling. Gradually, they straightened, but the ringing in his ears continued.

"Sulalk!" He shouted and heard a whisper. "Momma! Dent!"

Bro started to run again. His sister clung to him like a burr. There was a second blast as he splashed across the stream and a third, short of the hill crest between the stream and the village. A fist of sound pounded the breath from his lungs. Bro dropped to his knees. Tay-Fay's mouth was an open grimace, but for all Bro could hear her tears were silent. He scooped her up and staggered to the crest.

They could see the mill and a plume of smoke rising from its thatched roof. There were other plumes. Matching what he saw against the Sulalk he held in his mind, Bro knew immediately that Dent's cottage—their home—was on fire. Running too fast for memory, he carried Tay-Fay along the path he knew better than any other.

Flame fingers danced in the thatch of Dent's cottage and in the wooden lintels. Bro blinked several times, as if opening his eyes wide enough would rouse him from a nightmare, but he was awake and the fire was real.

Another blast shook sense back into him: Whatever had happened here, it continued and neither he nor his sister were safe.

Safe?

Safe was the cottage. Safe was his mother who always knew what to do.

Shali spent her mornings inside the cottage. A wave of horror washed down Bro's body. When it passed his spirit was as numbed as his ears. He pried Tay-Fay from his shirt and shoulders.

"Stay right here. Don't move. Don't follow me. Don't go anywhere until I come back for you."

Bro couldn't hear his voice, but his pale and quaking sister seemed to understand. She sat and folded her arms around her knees. He patted the top of her head as he strode past, into the smoke, beneath the fire.