The Wizard Test Page 10

  The peace in his face had been the same the night he held fire in his hands.

  Looking around the rain-drenched hill top, Dayven saw the subtle colors of the long grass. A spider busily mended a torn web. Some small animal had left tracks in the mud. He felt as if he had never seen any of these things before and they would always be new. This was what it was to be a wizard. A lump rose in his throat.

  “So.” Reddick’s voice seemed very far away. “What have you decided?”

  “I’m going to help you,” said Dayven. “I’ll tell Lord Enar whatever you want.”

  “I’m glad. When you’re a wizard, you’ll—”

  “No,” said Dayven. “I’m going to be a Guardian. I made a vow to my mother. It’s what I always wanted.”

  “What you wanted? Or did you want it because she wanted it?”

  Dayven’s face hardened. “I have worked no trick of magic that has altered the destiny of any man. My decision is made. I won’t change it.”

  “Let me understand this. You want to be a Tharn Guardian, but you’re going to side with the wizards and betray the Tharn?”

  “That has nothing to do with it,” said Dayven. “Not really. Sooner or later the Tharn … we will leave this land. If we leave now, the land and its people will live. And probably fewer will die in open battle than if we all starve in a siege. This valley belongs to the Cenzar, no matter what that old prophecy said. It always has. Better to return it now, alive, and live ourselves.”

  “It’s not really that simple. You’re right, as far as it goes, but for the Tharn the fighting won’t end when they leave. There are other tribes in the forest now. Wherever they go, they’ll have to fight to make room for themselves.”

  “But if we win this battle and the valley dies we’ll have to move on and fight anyway. And the Cenzar farmers will be forced to move, and fight for land, as well.”

  “You got it, kid. It wasn’t simple, but you saw all the sides. I’m proud of you.”

  “What will happen to the wizards when the Tharn go?”

  Reddick shrugged. “If they don’t throw us out, we’ll probably go with them. Or maybe stay with the Cenzar. Maybe both. Wizards move around a lot. It will be hard for the Tharn, for a while.”

  “I’ll be with them,” said Dayven.

  “Ah, I’m beginning to understand. You’re going to betray your people, but you’re going to renounce magic to punish yourself. Am I right?”

  If he was, Dayven wasn’t about to tell him so. “To keep what I can of my oaths, to my mother and Soren, is the only shred of honor I’ll have left!” His last hope of holding on to his true destiny.

  “You don’t think keeping this valley alive is honorable?”

  “I’m not sure what’s honorable anymore,” said Dayven. “The creed doesn’t cover this. But I think it’s the right thing to do.”

  “Honor isn’t the same as right?”

  “My mother said honor was loyalty to your people.”

  “Doesn’t that definition seem a little narrow?”

  “My mother was a good woman! My grandmother brought dishonor—”

  “Your mother wasn’t a wizard. And you should be.”

  “Should be? Nothing is the way it should be! If she knew what I was doing now, she would hate me! Soren is going to fight in that battle. He might get hurt. He might—” Dayven’s voice broke and he turned away.

  Reddick sighed. “It’s your choice.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve made it.” Dayven rubbed his eyes. “If you persuade Lord Enar to fight the Cenzar on the plain, instead of trying to withstand a siege, are you sure the Cenzar will win?”

  “No.” Reddick shook his head. “The armies are just about evenly matched. That’s why we’re going to cast weakening spells on the Tharn equipment. Straps will break, bowstrings will snap, spears will fly off balance, that kind of thing. You want to learn a spell to make armor come apart?”

  “No.” Dayven’s mouth was tight. “I want you to teach me a spell to prevent it.”

  Chapter 12

  They entered the city that morning, and Dayven found himself in the Lordowner’s presence before noon. It was much the same as the last time: the big man, towering in his chair, the carved oak staff at his side. And like the last time, there were no witnesses except Soren and Lore Master Senna.

  It was only in Dayven’s imagination that his Grandmother Adina’s spirit stood beside him, offering support — trying to help him calm his pounding heart.

  “Did you have any trouble getting away from the wizard to come here?” Lord Enar asked.

  “No, Lord,” said Dayven. “Reddick knows that Soren is my best friend — the closest member of my family still alive. For me to visit him at once seemed natural.” His throat ached with the truth of it. He was betraying Soren as well, but what other choice did he have? Obedience to the Lordowner was the second rule, but defending the weak was the first. And that was what the wizards were doing, wasn’t it?

  “Good,” said Lord Enar. “Tell us what you’ve learned.”

  Lore Master Senna moved, with his slow limping pace, to a bench by the wall. Dayven couldn’t look at him without turning away from the Lordowner, but he could feel the old bard’s cold, watchful gaze. He drew a deep, steadying breath and launched his tale.

  He began with a truthful account of his journey to Damishaff, of the dammed river, and how Reddick had freed the captured peasants. He knew that the Tharn troop captain would already have reported that incident. And if he left out the wondrous joy of his first experiences with magic, well, that wasn’t a lie…

  Describing what had happened in Damishaff was harder.

  “So you stayed in this zondar,” said Lord Enar. “How well could you keep track of Reddick’s doings while you were there?”

  “Not as well as before,” Dayven acknowledged. “I spent most mornings working with the Cenzar teachers, and I learned some things about the way they fight — especially about the way they use horses in battle — that I should tell the Sword Master.”

  “Really?” asked Lord Enar, diverted. “It’s been a long time since we fought a serious battle with the Cenzar. The bards’ accounts talk about their fighting techniques, and some of the older Guardians remember them, but no one has seen them fight recently.”

  “I’d be happy to pass that information on,” said Dayven. “In fact, Reddick suggested that I should.” To avert suspicion from the both of them, the wizard said. Was he betraying Vadeen now? What a twisted path this was — surely not a true one.

  “But that’s a matter for later,” Lore Master Senna reminded them both smoothly. “When you were learning these things, you couldn’t have been watching the wizard.”

  “No, sir,” said Dayven. “He spent most of his time in Damishaff talking with his friends in the zondar, but there were times he went out into the city, and I don’t know who he met or what he did then.”

  Still truth, still within the technical definition of honor. But the lie, the monstrous betrayal, was almost upon him. Could he do it? Could he really betray his Lord, his cousin, and his people? Dayven summoned up the memory of the scrawny crops, the wasted, sickly fields, and spread it over his heart like a shield.

  Soren cleared his throat, nervous at speaking out in such high company. “They were in the Cenzar city less than a week. Could the wizard, could anyone, plot treason in such a short time? A handful of meetings?”

  Lord Enar met the Lore Master’s eyes. Dayven couldn’t tell what he read there.

  “There’s no way to know, is there?” said Lord Enar slowly. “No way to be absolutely sure. So I suppose the real question is: Do you trust this wizard?”

  “Yes, Lord,” said Dayven. “I trust him.”

  The truth of it rang in his voice for all to hear. Lord Enar settled back in his chair, his shoulders relaxing in satisfaction, and even the Lore Master nodded.

  So truth created the ultimate lie. Was this what the world was like for wizards? This thorny
, gray tangle where right and wrong were so mixed there was no telling them apart?

  Dayven stood straight, watching the man to whom he owed loyalty with calm eyes. Only his heart wept.

  Dayven ran his hands over the strap that fastened Soren’s breastplate as he helped him into it.

  “You could have fought beside us,” said Soren. “Since the wizards aren’t planning treachery, there’s no reason to go on pretending you’re going to be one.”

  Lord Enar had offered to make him a Guardian in time for the battle, in return for his services, but the Lore Master had protested against it, claiming that they shouldn’t reveal anything to the wizards till after the battle was over. Dayven hadn’t objected — he could do all he needed serving as Soren’s Watcherlad.

  The morning wind blowing over the great plain rattled the canvas of Soren’s tent. The others had thought Soren mad to ask a wizard’s apprentice to help him arm for his first battle.

  “I’m out of practice,” said Dayven shortly. Soren’s loyalty would have had him in tears, but tears would have interfered with what he was doing. He ran his hands over the next piece of armor, checking for spells of weakening.

  “You spent most of last week practicing with the Cenzar,” Soren pointed out. “Dayven, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” said Dayven.

  He fought down the memory of Lord Enar’s voice: I suppose the real question is: Do you trust this wizard?

  He had spoken nothing but the truth. I’m sorry, Lord, he told Lord Enar now, in the depths of his own mind. But you asked the wrong question. You should have asked: Can you trust me?

  “Dayven!” Soren yanked his shield from his cousin’s absent grasp.

  A trumpet blew. Soren’s head lifted toward it, then he looked back at his cousin. “There’s something you’re not telling me. You’ve been avoiding me since you came back. What’s wrong?”

  “That’s the first call,” said Dayven. “We’d better get your horse.” He had checked the bridle by the time his cousin caught up with him, and started on the girths.

  “Dayven, you haven’t altered anyone’s destiny with magic, have you? Fallen for some wizard’s trickery?”

  “No.” Dayven’s heart twisted. “I have altered no one’s destiny … by magic.”

  “Then what is it?”

  Dayven began checking the horse’s hooves. As his fingers touched the shoe on the right forehoof, he felt the familiar tingling. The trumpet sounded again.

  “Curse it,” Soren swore. “I have to go.”

  “Get your helmet,” said Dayven. “I’ll bring the horse in a minute.”

  As Soren raced back to the tent, Dayven’s mind touched the spell of weakness that tainted the nails holding the shoe. They would break as soon as the horse began to gallop. At best the beast would become lame as the day wore on. At worst he might stumble, throwing his rider under the pounding hooves. Dayven banished the fragile spell and placed his own will on the nails, that they stay whole and strong and hold the shoe as they were made to. Imposing your will on inanimate objects, Reddick had called it. For a moment Dayven thought about the other Guardians, those who would fall victim to the wizards’ treachery. But the Tharn had to lose this battle — and that meant some of them would die. He dropped the hoof and looked up. Soren was staring at him. The trumpet called for the last time. “When this is over,” Soren took the reins and swung into the saddle, “we’re going to have a long talk, cousin.”

  Dayven stared after his friend until he could no longer see him. Would Soren ever understand that it was wizards’ truths, not wizards’ trickery, that had changed him? Would his cousin even survive this battle, and have the chance to try? No answer came. Dayven turned and made his way to the surgeons’ tent.

  The wizards arrived as a group, about an hour before the battle began. Male and female, plump and thin, shabby and well-groomed — the only thing they had in common was the gray of their robes, and the calm determination with which they met the surgeons’ scowls. Wizards’ healing might not be respectable, but no sane man, faced with the choice between magic and amputation, would refuse their aid.

  Dayven spent the day of the battle tripping over things that were in plain sight. All the healers, both wizards and surgeons, cursed his clumsiness and finally set him to the simplest task available — stirring a great pot of brewing herbs for poultices. The herbs stank, but Dayven didn’t object. With his hands on the stirring stick, he was free to keep his mind on visions of Soren.

  He watched his cousin waiting for the order to charge, late-morning sun beating on the helmet that concealed Soren’s face, his lance easy in hand.

  He saw the battle begin, his cousin in the front line, sweeping down on the Cenzar.

  He saw the moment that the well-aimed lance pierced a Cenzar body, and how Soren, ignoring the chaos raging around him, stopped his horse and stared down at the first man he had killed.

  A healer shook him, cursing. “I said add another packet of arrowroot! Are you deaf?” He hurried off. Dayven found the packet and fumbled blindly, tearing it and dumping the contents into the pot.

  He saw Soren, ahead of his men, surrounded by Cenzar. On their swift horses, the Cenzar warriors swarmed and darted like bees. One of their blades flicked under Soren’s helmet and a trickle of red crept down his breastplate before his men reached him. Soren never stopped fighting.

  Dayven watched his cousin, as the sun was setting, fall back from the battle to rest his weary horse. His sword was reddened the length of the blade, his leather gauntlets soaked with blood. Soren reached up and pulled off his helmet.

  Dayven saw his cousin’s face, already changed, change again as he looked over the battlefield and realized that the Tharn were going to lose.

  Tears began to creep down Dayven’s cheeks, but Soren’s expression only hardened. Safe behind the lines, Dayven watched his cousin replace his helmet and return to the battle, risking his life for a cause already lost.

  It was night.

  Sounds of celebration from the Cenzar camp drifted into the surgeons’ tent, mingling with the moans of the wounded. Dayven hated the Cenzar.

  He hated Lord Enar, who was in the Cenzar camp, agreeing to leave the valley with all his people in exchange for his life and the lives of his men.

  He hated the wizards as they moved among the worst of the wounded in the guttering torchlight. Their power flowed prodigally, altering men’s destinies by saving their lives. It caressed Dayven’s skin like a living creature.

  He hated Lore Master Senna, who claimed he had come to help the healers, but who spent most of his time watching the wizards — his own anger and shame naked on his usually unreadable face.

  But most of all — as the Tharn soldiers cursed the black fate that had seemed to dog their every step — with an aching, bitterness, Dayven hated himself.

  As he moved among the wounded with water and bandages, the small glow of his power was the only brightness in the gloom that seemed to wrap the Tharn camp. Dayven did nothing that could be observed by the sharp-eyed Lore Master, by anyone who wasn’t a wizard, but blood flowed slower from wounds he bandaged, and men who moaned and tossed in anguish fell peacefully asleep soon after he wiped their sweating foreheads. Even in the midst of his own depression, the use of his magic to heal and ease was unspeakably sweet. As a Guardian, he would vow never to use magic again.

  Soren’s troop came into the tent, bearing more stretchers. The Guardians’ creed said that all the wounded, enemy and friend, were to be carried from the field and cared for equally, but no troop except Soren’s was carrying the Cenzar wounded in. And the surgeons were very slow to tend them.

  Soren was the only person Dayven didn’t hate.

  His one wound was a shallow cut at the base of his throat. Watching his cousin now, as he gently set down the foot of the stretcher he carried, Dayven felt a rush of gratitude. That, at least, he had done right.

  “Hey, surgeon!” Soren’s voice was hoarse with shouting.
“I’ve got a bad one here.”

  One of the surgeons went to him. The wizard Sundar finished a healing spell and followed. Dayven gave his water jug to another apprentice and went to help.

  “It’ll have to come off,” said the surgeon grimly, leaning over the terrible wound. “He took a sword right through the knee. The joint is shattered.”

  “I can mend it.” Sundar stepped forward. “I still have enough power.”

  The surgeon stood and faced him. Dayven’s eyes left the smashed joint and found the wounded man’s face.

  It was Vadeen.

  Dayven’s heart throbbed, and then began to pound, sickly. He had almost forgotten he had two friends in this battle. How could he have forgotten?

  “If you’re going to use magic, wizard, it’ll be for one of our own kind,” the surgeon said.

  Vadeen was unconscious, his usually mobile face gray and slack, his eyes ringed with shadows.

  “He’ll probably die if you amputate,” Sundar argued. “As a surgeon, aren’t you sworn to heal everyone you can?”

  A one-legged man would ride in no great races. A one-legged man could not be a rashief.

  “Not by letting people work magic on them, I’m not.” The surgeon extended his arms to block Sundar’s path.

  I am not here. It was harder, in a well-lit room, full of people, but he could do it. I am not here. An apprentice with a tray of bandages in the surgeon’s tent. What could be less noticeable? No one can notice me. Your eyes will drift over me. I am like a chair or a cot, a part of this place. I am not here.

  Dayven slipped behind the surgeon’s back and knelt beside Vadeen. The sword had cut deep into his knee, severing bone and muscle. Dayven laid his hands on the wound and let all the power he had suppressed and concealed surge through them.

  His eyes closed.

  He felt the shattered bones begin to move together, the torn ligaments reaching for each other, the veins knitting to bring blood to damaged muscle. Finally, he let the power ebb and felt the weariness of his own body. Then he heard the odd pocket of silence that surrounded him, and knew what it meant. It took all the courage he possessed to open his eyes.