The Simbul's Gift (3 page)

When the birthing shed and Dent's hurt-puzzled face were behind him, Bro settled against one of the great trees that still grew here and there in the farmland, sentries of the vanished Yuirwood. He closed his eyes and opened his thoughts to Relkath Many-Branched, as Rizcarn had taught him to do.

Relkath was Lord of Trees, Godhead of the Yuirwood and buried so deep in time and memory that listening for his voice was like listening for the splash of a single raindrop during a summer storm.

If no one listens, Rizcarn had said, why should Relkath Many-Limbed ever talk to us again? If enough of the Cha'Tel'Quessir listen—truly listen—he'll hear our faith.

Bro remembered his father's words better than he remembered his voice or his face. He could summon Rizcarn's particulars: his deep, mottled, copper-green skin, raven hair, even darker eyes, and flashing, ivory teeth. His laughter, always faintly mocking, even at the last, when Rizcarn had balanced on the tree limb, chiding everyone for clumsiness a moment before he slipped and crashed headfirst onto the hard ground.

Bro could see
that
image—his father, facedown, limp, lifeless and odd-angled—but try as he might, Bro couldn't fit the living pieces together.

When Shali first brought him to Sulalk, Bro had come to this tree to grieve. He'd grown too old for tears. Today, as it had been for at least two years, he was simply numb and empty, thinking nothing, until there were voices and laughter coming along the path. Bro recognized one of the
voices: Varnnet, a farmer's son a few years older than him; the other voice belonged to a stranger, a woman, one of Gudnor's eligible nieces.

Bro made himself small in the tree's shadow. He'd tangled with Varnnet a few times and never come out the victor. It would be worse if Varnnet thought there was a woman at stake. Bro told anyone who asked that the Sulalk women didn't stir him in the least, but that was another lie. His heart leapt to the sound of a woman's laughter, the sway of her skirt as she walked past.

“You're growing up, Ember,” Shali had said when he first confessed his wayward thoughts. “Soon the girls will notice you and you'll be breaking hearts until you fall in love yourself. I'll lose my son to another woman!”

Her conclusions frightened Bro as few things frightened him: he'd become a stranger in his own body and his mother laughed! It was better now, or he'd grown more accustomed to the way his idle thoughts slewed. Bro drew his knees up to his chin and wrapped his arms around his ankles as the merrymaking voices came closer.

Walk on by, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut, as if his thoughts were wishes. I'm ignoring you, not looking at you at all, there's no reason for you to see me. Why did I come to this tree? It's too close to the path to Gudnor's farm.

As Bro's luck would have it, they stopped on the tree's other side. The woman's light, musical voice was enough to drive Bro mad, especially when he felt the fringes of her skirt brush lightly against his arm. Varnnet, surely, was standing nearby, fists cocked, waiting to pound a luckless Cha'Tel'Quessir rival. Bro gritted his teeth till his jaw ached. His pulse was loud enough to drown out the laughter.

“Zandilar!”

That was her voice, her name, her breath on the back of Bro's neck, teasing him while Varnnet flexed his muscles. Desperate, Bro flailed an arm, expecting disaster, finding only air beside him.

“Leave me alone! Gods curse on you—”

He opened his eyes. There was no one nearby: no dancing girl, no bully waiting with his fists. The humans had passed. The laughter—Bro still heard laughter—came from elsewhere.

“Zandilar!”

The name reminded him of the Yuirwood and nights with his father, but he couldn't place it precisely.

“Fine, young man, come dance with me!”

Locks of Bro's hair twisted on his neck and a touch soft as feathers, warm as life, caressed his arm. Bro clutched the cuff of his boot before he sprang to his feet. There was a knife—a dark-steel Cha'Tel'Quessir knife—in his hand when he stood, wary of an enemy he could feel, but not see.

“Fine,
silly
, young man! Come dance with Zandilar!”

He saw her then, hovering above the grass: a slender apparition in silver and gold. Cloaked in dazzling light, the apparition had no sex nor race, but her laugh was feminine, as was her manner. She sat astride a twilight horse whose black legs disappeared in its shadow.

A golden arm stretched out to trace the angle of his cheek; Bro's knees weakened. He staggered backward into the tree, dropping his knife as well. Her laughter shook the tree. Leaves brushed Bro's face as they floated down.

“Come dance with Zandilar in the Yuirwood, fine young man. Come when you're ready. I'll wait for you in the Sunglade!”

Zandilar spoke the Cha'Tel'Quessir dialect with a lilting accent as if ordinary words were a magical melody. When she wheeled the twilight stallion and galloped south, toward the Yuirwood, Bro yearned to follow her, but after three strides, they simply vanished.

“Sunglade,” Bro whispered Zandilar's parting word. He'd never visited the Sunglade, but Rizcarn had spoken of it in reverent tones: the oldest stone circle in the Yuirwood, older than the Cha'Tel'Quessir, built by the Yuir, the wild and full-blooded Sy-Tel'Quessir from whom Bro and all his scattered kin claimed descent.

The youth's pulse quieted. His hand was steady when he slipped the fallen knife into the boot sheath. There was no more reason to be frightened. He'd fallen in love, just as Shali predicted, and he'd dance with Zandilar when the twilight colt could carry him to the Sunglade—in two years, just as he'd planned. With Zandilar shimmering in his memory, no human girl would tempt him to break faith with the Cha'Tel'Quessir. With Zandilar waiting in the Sunglade, the next two years would be tortuously slow, but
when they'd passed, he and the twilight colt, Zandilar's Dancer—the name appeared suddenly in Bro's mind—would be ready.

Hours past midnight, in a distant part of Faerûn—in Shadowdale, to be precise—in the privy chambers of the mage, Elminster, to be absolutely accurate—a silver-haired woman sat bolt-upright in bed.

“Zandilar?” she muttered, cross-grained and clutching a corner of the mage's linen. “Zandilar's dancer?”

Nearby, the great mage tidied his abundant beard. “What disturbs you, Alassra?” He laid a gently restraining hand on her forearm, deterring her from the shapeshifting magic that was her reflex response to unmeasured danger.

“Zandilar. The name came to me in a dream from Aglarond.”

No surprise there. These days, Alassra Shentrantra, Chosen of Mystra, was better known as the Simbul, the storm queen of Aglarond, and she took her ruling responsibilities seriously. Little in Aglarond passed beneath her knowledge. If Zandilar had penetrated Alassra's rest here in Shadowdale, then Zandilar was important. Elminster racked his prodigious memory for answers to questions that would almost certainly be asked.

“A god, I think,” Alassra muttered.

“A goddess, Zandilar the Dancer,” the Old Mage corrected. “Once of the Sy-Tel'Quessir in the Yuirwood.”

The silver hair shimmered as Alassra nodded. “There's a stone in the Sunglade that bears her name—one of the smaller stones within the elven Seldarine circle.”

Elminster made a light and, in the chamber's northern corner, a brazier came to life beneath a ceramic pot kept filled with water. “You're aware of the rumor that some of the Cha'Tel'Quessir seek to arouse the powers of their distant ancestors?”

Alassra rose from the bed with the singular grace possessed by all seven daughters of Dornal and Elué Shundar. She clothed herself in a gown of plain-woven linen and knelt beside the brazier.

“Of course I'm aware of rumors,” she said, her voice sharp, and a reminder, even to Elminster, that the epithet “storm queen” was well deserved. “The Cha'Tel'Quessir have talked about their ancestors as long as humans have groused in the Fang. Discontent is foremost in the Aglarondan nature. That's why I rule there. I don't fear it.”

Boiling water rattled the pot's lid. Unmindful of the steam, Alassra stuffed crumpled leaves into a silver-lace basket, then shoved the basket into still-bubbling water. Elminster sat in silence, waiting for the tea's fragrance to calm his beloved friend.

A few moments later, Alassra sipped tea hot enough to scald and sank into a cushioned chair. “Your warning was well-meant. I will see if the Cha'Tel'Quessir malcontents are attached to Zandilar the Dancer. Yet, I tell you, what was said to me was not Zandilar the Dancer, but Zandilar's Dancer and the image, unmistakably, was that of a horse, a foal, in fact, and scarcely a day old.”

“Rashemen, perhaps?” Elminster suggested. Alassra had grown up among the Rashemaar witches. Centuries had not dulled the bonds between the horse folk and their adopted daughter. “Surely they would warn you if their seers had scryed something ominous.”

But Alassra shook her head before Elminster could pursue his thought further.

“This was an announcement, not a warning. And the messenger was a Cha'Tel'Quessir youth, not quite grown.” She wrinkled her brow. “His mother calls him Ember. He means to dance with her, with Zandilar—or the horse.” She smiled and shook her head. “He's young still; his thoughts shift before they're complete.”

Elminster stifled his own smile, remembering a time when he was younger and the ever-shifting thoughts of Elué Shundar's daughters confounded every mage in Faerûn.

Again, Alassra interrupted Elminster's thoughts. “It is odd, isn't it, El—to combine horses and the Yuirwood powers in a single thought? A forest is hardly the place where I'd look for horses.”

“Nowadays,” Elminster agreed, reaching into one of his robe's many pockets and drawing out the briar-thorn pipe that nestled there. Sparks flew and scents as delicate as
Alassra's tea mingled in the air. “There was a time, though … Faerûn was a colder, wetter place, stamped with great trees the likes of which—well, a few remain in the groves around your sister's Silverymoon, but of what remains of that primal forest, most of it is in your beloved Aglarond, deep in the Yuirwood.”

Alassra arched an eyebrow many shades darker than her hair. “And horses? I suppose you're going to tell me that herds of horses ran freely in this primal forest.”

“As freely as any creature that size can run between the trees. As freely, at least, as a great hart.”

“And herds, El—were there herds of forest horses in the time before you and I?”

Elminster shrugged, knowing that Alassra was baiting him. “Small herds, I should think. Narrow, certainly. Easier to fit between the trees and the hunters.”

“Oh—hunters? Bears, wolves and panthers, or creatures more exotic?”

“Men, Alassra,” the bearded mage said, growing suddenly serious. “There were men in Faerûn's forest.”

“And women?”

She'd missed his change in tone, a rare mistake and a certain sign that the midnight image disturbed her more than she wished to admit.

“Men
and
women, yes. Living their lives, worshiping their gods—none of whom are remembered.”

Alassra poured herself another cup of tea. “Except by you?” She'd sensed the change now, but resisted it. Her baiting turned brittle, bitter.

“I know nothing about them, dear friend, except that they—the hunters and their gods—existed in that part of the primal Faerûn forest that the Yuir elves would eventually claim for themselves. There those elves would erect two stone circles, one inside the other, one inscribed with Seldarine names and the other with names that are, as you, yourself said, at best, half-forgotten.”

“The Cha'Tel'Quessir? Say it outright, El: There are Cha'Tel'Quessir who've never reconciled to human rule in Aglarond. They wish to see every human man, woman, and child put in boats and sailed toward the sunset. They'd like to raise the ancient Yuir powers toward that aim, but they won't act on their wish, not while the zulkirs and
tharchions of Thay lick their chops just across Aglarond's border.”

“If they've only got
one
wish, Alassra. I doubt that they do. Oh, maybe some of them, the Cha'Tel'Quessir are no more immune to short sight than the rest of us …”

Alassra scowled. Her eyes began to glow with sapphire light. Elminster ignored the warning. In all of Faerûn, but especially in his privy chambers, he was the best equipped to weather the storm queen's tantrums.

“But the Cha'Tel'Quessir aren't like any other race—”

“They
aren't
a race! They're half-elves!”

“Precisely, but tell that to them. Nowhere in Faerûn, nowhere on all Toril, is there a place where half-elves look at both their children and their parents and see folk like themselves. Nowhere … except in the Yuirwood.”