The Simbul’s Gift

The woods were quiet, without the tang of menace Lauzoril's warding spells would have conveyed had danger lain waiting. He had, however, the sense that he was being watched. The watching eyes might belong to a bird or animal, and thus have failed to trigger his spells or they could belong to a magic user with the skills and spells to pass unharmed through a zulkir's wards. Lauzoril took no chances. He placed his hand firmly on the gold-wrapped hilt of his dagger.

The knife awakened at his touch and challenged his right to dominate it. Lauzoril met the challenge and quenched its rebellion. The knife's spirit, Shazzelurt, spoke directly to his mind.

Nothing, Master. Nothing magical. Nothing lost.

As old as the ore from which it had been forged, Shazzelurt was not easily deceived. Lauzoril heeded its warnings, but sometimes disregarded its assurances. He concentrated on a potent enchantment that could stun a serious foe and annihilate a lesser one. The fingers of his left hand formed the requisite gesture, the triggering word was fresh in his mind: he'd cast the spell with his dying breath, if worse came to worst.

Until then ...

"Show yourself."

He heard rustling. Without magic's aid, no human eyes could see deeply into the twilight shadows, but the sound had been too large for a bird or squirrel. Large enough for a man? Even now his wards

were quiescent and Shazzelurt remained silent.

"I'm of a mind to be merciful, but be warned: My mind is quicksilver."

More rustling, then movement through the shadows. Too small to be a man, Lauzoril considered the gnomes and goblin-kin he kept as slaves. The moment of mercy faded. He'd raised his hand before he heard a very familiar voice.

"Poppa? Poppa, I'm sorry. Please, Poppa ... I didn't know what would happen. I didn't know I'd find you here."

"Mimuay," Lauzoril sputtered before words failed him.

He'd come within a breath of killing his daughter and needed a moment to slow his racing heart. In lieu of words, he spun a light sphere from one of his rings and let it float above the stone horse's head. His eldest daughter stared at the sphere, at the horse: She'd never seen her father do what he did best.

Never.

She trembled, trying not to cry. Her hair was mussed with leafy bits. Her shift and face were both creased from lying on the ground. Lauzoril guessed she'd fallen asleep waiting for his return.

"Your mother will be crying by now, thinking that you're lost forever," he said with unfeigned sternness. "Everyone will be looking for you, but no one will look here. No one else would disobey my orders."

The girl nodded; a tear escaped and made a shiny track down her cheek. She was a plain child under the best of circumstances; tears did not become her. Lauzoril quenched the light and threw the saddle and its packs over his shoulder. The flying carpet, ever buoyant, eased the load.

"Shall we walk together to the house?"

"Poppa?"

She sought his hand through the shadows. Her fingers were cold and clammy. Lauzoril warmed them naturally with his own.

"Why were you in the grove?" he asked as they emerged from it.

Mimuay shivered and withdrew her hand. "I have a friend, Poppa."

The zulkir contained a sigh. It was bound to happen. He kept his daughters isolated and innocent, but childhood couldn't last forever. Mimuay was thirteen. When he was thirteen he'd already mastered the fourth level of enchantment and forgotten his childhood.

"One of the retainers? One of the slaves?"

Leaves rustled as she shook her head. "A ghost, Poppa."

Lauzoril stopped short, shedding his burdens. He seized his daughter by the shoulders and pivoted her around until the dying sunlight reflected in her eyes. A ghost! He didn't want to think what a ghost could do to his daughter.

"Not a ghost," he concluded after his examination. Courtesy of his ancestors—Mimuay's ancestors—he knew more about the undead than any other enchanter in Thay.

"But he's not alive, Poppa."

"There are many things that aren't alive—that doesn't mean they're ghosts. Stay away from ghosts, Mimuay."

"Yes, Poppa. I promise."

"As you promised to stay out of the grove?"

She pulled away from him, staring back at the trees. This was not a conversation he'd ever meant to have and, not surprisingly, it wasn't going well. They were alike—he'd known that since she was old enough to talk—now they were both angry, both frightened. He took a deep breath and tried again.

"Does your friend have a name?"

"Ferrin. He's been dead a long time."

In Thazalhar, that was almost a certainty. "So, this Ferrin-whatever—did he tell you to disobey your father?"

Mimuay hesitated, plucking leaf bits from her hair and crumbling them to dust. "He said ... He said I had a gift, but you had a greater one that you'd share with me if... if I went to the grove while you were gone and stayed there until you returned."