The brazen gambit

chapter Nine

“Welcome. I’ve been waiting for you. Sit down and be comfortable. We’ve much to discuss, you and I. Much to learn about each other. Are you hungry? Thirsty? Your wishes shall become commands.”
Zvain took a tentative step into the dusky, carpeted chamber. He dared a glance at his host, who wore an unadorned, bleached robe and sat amid similarly colorless cushions.
The master of this domain was an ageless-seeming man with pale skin and impassive features, topped by long, faintly yellow hair. His hands were folded in his lap. His face was lean and angular: elven, or partly so. His eyes sloped more than human eyes, but they were shadowed by brows of human heaviness.
Zvain could not determine their color, or more importantly, their focus.
He wanted to see those eyes very much, for although the master’s voice was cordial and the chamber more than inviting, he’d just been released from considerably less congenial surroundings where his wishes, when he’d dared express them, had brought him blows, mocking laughter, and curses.
“On your knees with an answer, boy!”
A cheek-scarred mul struck him between the shoulders. He staggered forward but caught his balance before his bare feet touched the carpet. Generally, he had a free man’s pity for branded slaves, but he felt no such soft emotion for the armed and armored brute who, with a succession of punches and kicks, had herded him through the long, empty corridors.
If his wishes had suddenly become commands, he knew what he wanted: “Send him away,” he said hoarsely, flicking his thumb toward the mul. His throat was raw from too much crying and fear. “That’s my wish.”
The shadows beneath the blond man’s brows deepened. He blinked, then said: “Therdukon, you are dismissed.”
“Your will, my lord.”
The countless sharpened scales of Therdukon’s body-armor clattered against each other as the mul saluted and spun smartly on the hard leather heels of his similarly defended boots. A dozen jangling footfalls echoed before the sounds faded entirely. Zvain was impressed, but not entirely reassured. He’d seen enough on the streets to know that a master who filled his bodyguard with noisy bullies was apt to be a bully himself, with all the wrath that went with tenderness of pride.
So he stayed where he was, one step into the chambers with his toes worrying the knotted fringe of the carpet.
“What else, boy? Or will you sit now that we’re alone?”
The man extended an elegant left hand toward a hassock that, after weighing the risks of obedience against those of suspicion, Zvain approached cautiously. He circled the unfamiliar mound of plush upholstery, noting rays of sunlight filtering through the plaster fretwork between the ceiling and the top of the wall. He could guess the time—early afternoon—from the angle and color of the light. But not the day. The morning harangues had not penetrated the walls of his cell.
He stopped circling and faced his mysterious host.
“How long was I imprisoned?”
They were closer to each other now. The lean face lifted slightly; light struck the hidden eyes. They were dead black: hard, sharp, and compelling. Zvain’s knees gave out, and he collapsed on the hassock, which breathed a mighty sigh through its seams and tassels. He stiffened as he sank into its depths, then felt foolish: the sound had been nothing more than air escaping the cushions.
The master chuckled, a hearty, deep-pitched sound. He righted himself in the cushions and found his courage.
“How long?”
“No time at all. Imprisoned.” Pale lips curved into a smile. “You were delirious when you arrived here. We feared for your life, and—surely you can understand—for our own. You could not answer the simplest of questions: who you were or where you had been before the illness struck. For safety’s sake we isolated you. Think of the last four days as quarantine… and consign them to a forgotten past now that you’ve recovered your wits.”
Lies. He hadn’t been struck ill. He’d been struck hard from behind and knocked unconscious. The lump still throbbed. And he’d been imprisoned: a dank, windowless chamber behind a bolted door was a cell, not a sickroom. He tried to shame his silk-voiced host with a dramatic frown, but he was no match for those dead, black eyes. Thoroughly defeated, he stared at the carpet.
“You have recovered your wits, haven’t you?” The pale man chuckled again. This time there was palpable malice weaving through the mirth. He rang a small crystal bell.
A boy came immediately through a drape-concealed door, a heavy ceramic serving tray balanced on his shoulder. A bright and fashionably elaborate tattoo covered his cheek. Zvain wouldn’t have noticed the tiny brand scars if he hadn’t been looking for them.
The slave gasped and stopped short, the tray tottering in his hands. Zvain followed the slave’s glance to a short-legged table upended against the wall, where it was obviously not expected to be. He met the other boy’s eyes and shared his panic. It would have been no effort to help his age-mate, but the slave-master watched, and he stayed where he was.
He couldn’t breathe as the slave hooked a feet around a table leg, righted it, and dragged it slowly across the carpet. The tray tilted precariously more than once. Crockery slid and clattered, but nothing spilled, nothing fell, nothing broke before the tray sat in its proper place. The slave sank to his knees, trembling with relief. Zvain stuffed his own trembling hands beneath his thighs.
The tray displayed delicacies guaranteed to attract the attention of any boy, slave or free: morsels of crispy meat, dried fruits glistening with honey and powdered spices. What little he’d eaten in the last four days did not deserve to be called food. His mouth began to water, and his gut betrayed him with a rumble.
“Eat whatever you want, as much as you want.”
The slave-master’s silky voice squelched his appetite. There were countless ways to tumble from freedom into slavery. One way was to perform a slave’s work; he’d avoided that. Another way was to fill one’s gut before one knew the price of the meal. While me tattooed slave mixed water and herbs for tea, Zvain rubbed the lump on his skull.
He assumed that he’d fallen prey to one of Urik’s innumerable slavers. It seemed a reasonable guess and, in a way, inevitable. Orphaned children didn’t starve in King Hamanu’s city. If they couldn’t attach themselves to someone bigger and stronger, they got snatched by slavers. He’d tried to attach himself to someone bigger and stronger: Pavek, the templar. But that hadn’t worked.
His own fault.
Pavek had come to him with promises of vengeance, but had seemed more interested in groveling for his old friends at the city-gate. Zvain remembered that last day. They’d quarreled in the morning and barely patched things up before Pavek started working up his day’s sweat. He’d promised to pray for the man, then been told to stay put. Pavek was always giving him contradictory orders. To show his mettle, he’d wandered off, but Pavek was gone when he got back. An old man said itinerants had hired Pavek to guide them through the city streets. And he, gith’s-thumb fool that he was, had gone searching after his supposed protector.
Pavek’s fault.
If that blundering templar hadn’t blundered into his life he’d never have been wherever he had been when the slavers caught up with him.
The slave finished making the tea. He bowed to his master and left the chamber without having said a word. Belatedly, Zvain wondered if the other boy’s tongue had been cut out and, not surprisingly, his own tongue soured. “There’s caution, Zvain—”
He sat bolt upright; until that moment he’d believed—hoped—the slavemaster hadn’t known his name. He didn’t remember giving it away, but the lump on his skull covered an empty spot in his memory. Maybe he had been delirious… Certainly, he couldn’t be too cautious, now.
“And there’s foolishness. I can taste your fear, Zvain: that’s the taste of foolishness. I know you’re thirsty; I offer you tea.” Using his left hand only, the slave-master filled a shallow bowl with fragrant, red-amber tea and pushed it closer.
He shrank away as if the tea were poison, as it could well be.
“A man can starve himself in the presence of food, but he can’t not drink. You’re thirsty, Zvain. Desperately thirsty. Why not slake your thirst? What are you afraid of?”
Zvain shook his head, not daring to speak. The hard-eyed slave-master was right. With each breath, each heartbeat, the tea grew less resistible.
“Watch—I’ll drink from your bowl myself—” And the half-elf did, draining it in two deep swallows. When he lowered his hands, the tea had stained his lips crimson. “Would I do that if it were poisoned?”
Possibly, poisoners usually developed a tolerance for their preferred poisons, strictly to reassure their victims. But Zvain’s concerns weren’t about the purity of the tea.
“I won’t eat your food or drink your tea. I won’t take anything from you. I’m free, and I don’t want to become a slave.”
The slave-master sat back with a dramatic sigh. “First it’s prisons, now it’s freedom and slavery! Where do you get such suspicious thoughts, Zvain? You were brought to my house sick and witless. If it’s awing you’re worried about”—his voice turned harsh and Zvain looked up; owing was exactly what he was worried about—“it’s a little late for caution. You already owe me your life, boy.”
Zvain was speechless. His jaw dropped, but words refused to form.
“Eat the food I offer, Zvain; you’ve eaten it already.” The slave-master brought his right hand out of the folds of his tunic, revealing red-and-black enameled talons fastened over the tip of each finger. He speared one of the spiced fruits and brought it delicately to his mouth. He reached for another, but paused with one talon pointed at Zvain’s heart “If I meant you harm, boy, nothing would spare you. Do not tempt me with what you do not want.”
An enameled talon flicked downward, piercing a honeyed bit of fruit. “Take what I offer you,” the slave-master purred as he raised the talon.
Touch that food, Zvain told himself, and he’d be fed, clothed, sheltered, and owned as surely as if he’d been paraded naked through the slave market. But freedom was precious only when you had coins in your pocket.
Deliberately ignoring the morsel on the slavemaster’s talon, he selected the smallest of the remaining fruits. He chewed it slowly. The spices crunched, the honey filled his throat with a subtle warmth that tickled his nose from the inside and made his eyes water. He’d seen folks drinking mead, broy, and the other liquors that reddened their faces and made them laugh too loudly at things that weren’t funny. He’d seen folks slumped in corners, half-empty bowls still clutched in their hands, and he’d seen them retching when the morning sun struck their eyes. He’d sworn to his mother that he’d never be so foolish.
And his mother was dead.
He reached for a second morsel and chewed it as slowly as he had the first, meeting the slave-master’s black eyes as he did. The fear was still there, but far to the back of his thoughts. He pretended it was gone, and, after a moment, it was.
“How did a fine, intelligent boy like you come to be dressed in rags, scrounging garbage in the elven market?” Wariness nudged his rapidly blurring thoughts: He didn’t now where he’d been when he’d been hit over the head, but it hadn’t been the elven market, and he said so:
“Not th’ elven market. Not scroungin’, neither.” His mouth felt… odd. His tongue, odder.
“What were you doing?” the slave-master asked patiently, using his unencumbered hand to pour another bowl of tea.
Zvain slurped the amber liquid eagerly. He was wiping his mouth on his forearm when the chamber began to spin. A fast grab to the cushions steadied the chamber, but sent the bowl flying. The slave-master held out his taloned hand. The bowl slowed, swerved, and drifted to a halt on the pale palm.
“Oh, no—” Zvain murmured. His gut rolled. Color drained from his vision.
“What were you doing in dyers’ plaza? Why were you running? What were you looking for in the cloth maze? What or whom?”
Dyers’ plaza…? The cloth maze? Yes, he began to remember more clearly. The people he’d asked about Pavek and the itinerants bad said that they’d seen a quartet of that description going into the dyers’ tangle of freshly colored lengths of cloth. He’d entered the maze blindly, full of anger that Pavek had abandoned him before he’d been able to abandon Pavek. An errant breeze had brought a familiar voice to his ears.
…that… powder… turned into… Laq—
Laq.
Zvain and his anger lurched sideways, then righted themselves.
Pavek’s groveling and sweating had been part of a plan after all: he’d found the Laq-sellers. If vengeance was to be had for his mother’s death, for the death of the man he called his father, he’d been determined to be a part of it. Deep in drunken memories of unusual vividness, he flailed through the dyers’ cloth, but the air was still. Pavek’s voice no longer came to him.
He almost shouted Pavek’s name aloud before he remembered that there was a price on the former templar’s head.
“Who, Zvain? Who are you looking for? Who do you seek?”
He blinked and rubbed his eyes. A shadowy outline of the slave-master’s gaunt face rippled across the lengths of red and yellow cloth. “No,” he whispered, something was terribly wrong, but he couldn’t quite decide what it was. He shook his head. A mistake: everything started to spin. “No one.” He reached for the cloth to keep himself from falling. It melted in his hands.
“Who, Zvain?”
He heard the cracks and groans of a man being beaten. Pavek. Templars weren’t clever, not the way boys raised beneath the city streets were clever, the way he was clever. Pavek had blundered in some typically templar way, and the Laq-sellers were pounding him.
The dyers’ cloth became gauzy, then transparent, then disappeared completely and the square was deserted, except for three people beating a fourth. The itinerants were an ugly trio, the worst-looking specimens of their kind he could imagine: a warty human woman, a hairy dwarf, and an elf with a pendulous nose and sagging belly. But they had the better of Pavek, who was on his hands and knees, blood pooling on the paving stones.
Once again, the templar’s name formed in his throat; once again he swallowed before it escaped.
“Who, Zvain?”
The voice came from behind. He spun and saw nothing.
“Who?”
He spun around again. The Laq-sellers continued to pummel Pavek, who was crawling toward him.
“Answer me, Zvain!”
There was nothing to account for the voice that echoed off the walls of the empty square. The speaker was unseen.
Unseen…
Mind-bending masters of the Unseen Way were, by the very nature of their talent and practice, more hidden than those who wore the Veil. To his knowledge, Zvain had never met an Unseen Master, but he knew how mind-benders could turn a young man’s world inside out, trapping him in his own memory, attacking him with the horrors of his own imagination. Tales said that every sentient creature had the instinctive power to cast out even the most potent mind-bender, but he, staring in panic at the cloudless sky of his memory and imagination, had no idea how to defend himself.
“Zvain!”
A different voice this time. Familiar and focused. Pavek, no longer a blundering, unclever templar, but a strong and brave man who fought with an obsidian trident. Blood no longer streamed from Pavek’s face, but from the Laq-sellers who lay in heaps at his feet. Zvain ran toward the fighter who would, surely, rescue him.
“Who am I!”
The question came from Pavek’s mouth and echoed off the walls. Zvain skidded to his knees. His savior was not Pavek, not a savior at all, but the mind-bender. And not wanting to see his own death reflected in Pavek’s familiar eyes, he tried to lower his head, but he’d been transfixed.
The false Pavek regarded him with undisguised disgust as he raised his trident. Zvain found enough strength to tremble and whimper. But the mind-bending imposter aimed the trident at himself and, laughing manically, thrust the tines into his own head. With razor-edged talons he slowly peeled Pavek’s face away from his skull—
No—Not his skull.
Unable to look away, Zvain gaped in horror as a gold-etched black mask appeared where the mind-bender’s face should have been. And, by King Hamanu’s infinitesimal mercy, he knew the patterns on that mask—
Elabon Escrissar: Templar of the High Bureau, interrogator, and King Hamanu’s favorite. A man more hated—and feared—on the streets of Urik than the sorcerer-king himself.
The interrogator’s mask was fully revealed; Pavek’s inside-out face hung in tatters from red and black talons that had replaced the vanished trident. The templar shock it once; the slashed parchment reformed itself, right-side out.
“Pavek. That misbegotten jozhal’s still got his nose where it doesn’t belong.”
The templar shook his talons a second time, and Pavek’s face floated away on an intangible wind. Then Elabon Escrissar turned toward him, and he would have vomited up his fear, if he’d been able to do anything at all. Laq was deadly, but Elabon Escrissar was worse, and the two together, as it seemed they were, was evil beyond measure.
“Don’t be afraid, Zvain. Your loyalty is commendable, for all that it was misplaced. You shall be rewarded—”
Sheer terror finally broke his paralysis when the talons were less than a handspan from his nose. He flopped onto his side and curled into a tight, quivering ball. His heart stopped when cool fingers caressed his cheek.
“There, there, Zvain. Don’t be afraid. Truly. When you fear the worst, it manifests before you; that is the mind’s nature. Banish your fears and be rewarded. Raise your head. Open your eyes.”
Slowly, unwillingly at first, he began to relax. His heart calmed, and the knotted muscles in his neck loosened. When his eyes opened, he looked upon a wise and kindly face, a face so pale it seemed to glow with its own gentle light.
“No,” Zvain whispered, trying to recall his fear and the slave-master’s true face.
Black talons traced a feather-gentle line across his cheek. He felt his skin open.
“Banish your fears. Accept what I show you as the truth.”
The talons were gone, replaced by soothing fingertips that sealed his wounds. Blood became tears.
“Pavek would not help you—Pavek did not love you.”
Elabon Escrissar gestured toward emptiness. It filled with a swarthy, stoop-shouldered human dressed in a dirty, sweat-stained yellow robe. The scars on Pavek’s face pulsed malignantly. His eyes squinted, and his lips twisted into a beastly sneer.
“He abandoned you, didn’t he? He consorted with your enemies, the Laq-sellers—”
The itinerant trio, as ugly and depraved as before, appeared around Pavek, bound to him by chains of congealed blood.
“And you thought he was your friend. My poor Zvain—you thought he would rescue you, protect you. But he betrayed you instead—”
A cool fingertip touched his tears, drying them, so he could see with perfect clarity.
“What can I give you for a reward, Zvain?”
“Vengeance.”
“That is not enough. What else do you want?”
“Magic.”
“They are yours. Take them.”
He felt parchment fingers touch his forehead, then withdraw.
“Take ashes and dust.”
The conducive substances appeared on the ground. He gathered a handful of each before rising to his feet. He could see the templar’s face—stern and vengeful now, but still glowing with inner wisdom—and Pavek’s—turning more bestial each time his scar throbbed—and the truth was very, very clear in his mind.
“Open your mouth. Speak the words on the tip of your tongue—”
He obeyed, willingly. Harsh syllables hung in the air. They summoned the dust from his right hand and the ash from his left. Pavek began to scream; his tongue lengthened and swelled grotesquely until it plugged his throat. The screaming stopped, but the tongue continued to grow as Pavek’s entire body was consumed by one of its lesser parts.
Completely enrapt by the horror and magic, Zvain watched as the slug-thing burst its yellow robes and writhed on the paving stones. It sprouted countless wormy fingers, each with a throbbing scar, a single Pavek-eye, and a silently shrieking Pavek-mouth. As the last of the dust and ash evaporated from his clenched hands, the Pavek-thing began to shrivel. The tiny eyes turned to ash, the open mouths filled with dust, and the wormy fingers shriveled into black splotches that spread and merged until what remained of Pavek resembled nothing so much as the tell-tale black, protruding tongue of a Laq-eater’s corpse.
Then that, too, crumbled and was borne away on the intangible wind.
“Vengeance…” the whispered word echoed against the walls of the deserted dyers’ plaza.
He opened his hands and stared at them a moment. He’d imagined vengeance would be gratifying; instead he was as empty as his hands.
“Will he serve?” an unexpected, unfamiliar voice said from behind his left shoulder.
Without thought Or hesitation, he turned toward the sound. He saw painted walls, draperies, and a wild-haired halfling. The halfling’s face had been brutally marked with slave-scars that seemed both old and unhealed. There was, however, nothing servile in the halfling’s posture or his voice when he repeated his question.
Zvain shook his head, unable to comprehend the question until he’d sorted out where he was from where he’d been.
“Oh, yes, Kakzim. Beyond our wildest dreams—”
This time the voice and face were familiar: the elegantly pale slave-master with taloned fingertips. Elabon Escrissar without his mask or the inner light of wisdom.
Were he not still sitting on the hassock, he would have collapsed as the pieces fell into place. He’d taken more than food and drink from the interrogator: he’d accepted magic.
Or the illusion of magic.
He’d destroyed Pavek in the theater of his mind, not reality and took a moment’s comfort from that—until he noticed the wall behind the interrogator. It was barren; the thick vines and cloying flowers were gone. Fearing the worst, he looked at the floor, where a thin layer of ash dulled the carpet.
It didn’t matter whether he’d killed Pavek in the dyers’ plaza or in his mind; he’d drawn real magic to do it. His greed for vengeance had consumed the life of Athas and left nothing in return. He’d become a defiler, irrevocably doomed and condemned by a single, thoughtless and futile act.
“—Zvain’s one of us, now.”

* * *

Pavek had begun to run as soon as he saw the vast green-crowned grove on the horizon, and he’d run himself to exhaustion before he realized that no amount of racing would get him there. Gasping and feeling like an utter fool—again—he dropped to his knees. He could only wait, lapping up the sweat that fell from his face into his cupped hands, and wait for the cool wind from the center to blow again.
He was confident that it would. From what he’d seen so far, Telhami wouldn’t miss the opportunity to mock him face-to-face in her grove. He didn’t have to wait long. This time he followed the breeze obediently, even when it curled away from the grove, and set his foot on soft green grass when the sun was only a few handspans above the treetops. The druid’s grove was alive with pattering sound. Pavek flinched left and right at each step before he observed water drops falling through the trees, striking leaves and branches before they dived into the grass. He’d heard or seen nothing like it before. Face up toward the trees, he stumbled through the gentle rain, paying more attention to the foliage than his feet.
“However did you survive as a templar in the lion’s city?” He demonstrated his survival skills, bounding into the air like a startled erdlu, but landing, fists clenched and teeth bared, in a compact, wary crouch.
Telhami reclined on the far bank of a spring-fed stream. At least, he assumed it was Telhami. Quraite’s chief druid had discarded her veil. The sunlight filtered through the trees revealed her as a woman no longer young, but hardly a withered crone. Prejudiced by a lifetime of dealing with templars, he took her relaxed presence and ironic tone as intimidation ploys and countered with insolence: immersing his face in the surprisingly cold water, as if it were something he’d done ten thousand times before.
“Yes, yes, Pavek. Take your time. You already know everything that I could teach you.”
More intimidation, and successful this time—which left him that much more determined to conceal how decisively she’d stung him. He sauntered across the stream.
“I knew enough to get here, didn’t I?” he asked as he sat. “You and Ruari thought I’d wander forever. Well, I followed your cool wind from the center, and now I’m ready to be taught whatever it is that you have to teach.”
Telhami responded with a solitary arched eyebrow. “You run a good race, Just-Plain Pavek, but you don’t know how to win. It doesn’t matter if you’re growing trees or trying to get another scarlet thread for your sleeve—in the end it’s not the power that matters, it’s the will behind it. Here, as you noticed, power drips down from the trees. Hold out your hand and it flows over you, but can you catch it, Just-Plain Pavek? Can you speak its silent language? Can you bend it with your will?”
“That’s what I’m here to be taught.”
The druid flicked her hand, and a water-plume splattered his cheek. “I can’t teach you how to wield your own will! What do you take me for—? Another sorcerer-king? An incubating dragon? I tell you: the spirit of Athas surrounds us. Speak to it. Bargain with it. Invoke it. Either you can do it, or you can’t. Forget your scrolls. Start with light; that’s the simplest spell. Make light, Just-Plain Pavek, while the sun still shines. Make water while it flows beside you. Call a bird or bee down from the treetops. You know the invocations. They’re the same for a druid, a sun-cleric, or a Lion’s templar—you did know that, didn’t you, Just-Plain Pavek? So, make something happen. Something. Anything. Show me what you can do.”

* * *

Telhami sat back to watch and wait. She’d been prepared to wait several days; this stranger had done well to reach her grove the same afternoon he’d set out to find it. Though she’d decided, considering what he’d been, mat she wouldn’t add her voice to the cool wind. She’d done that for Yohan who, even so, had needed three days to find her grove his first time.
Yohan had dreamed of magic, like this youthful templar.
Yohan had tried his best, but not as dramatically as Pavek, who grunted, groaned, and knotted every muscle with his efforts. He put forth a prodigious amount of sweat and tweaked the consciousness of Quraite’s guardian spirit. It was not impressed and certainly not compelled, but it was aware.
Once a stranger roused the guardian—which Yohan had never done—she desperately wanted him or her to succeed. The price of failure here, where Quraite was strongest, was invariably death. If Pavek could not shape the guardian’s will with his own, the ground would open around him and his corpse would join several dozen others shrouded in the myriad roots. And although that was a fate that served her purpose—adding lifeforce to Quraite-Telhami preferred to nurture Quraite with living druids rather than strangers’ corpses.
On the other hand, Pavek was not the only disenfranchised templar wandering the Tablelands. The sullen broods of several city-states had been cut loose when their sorcerer-kings died or disappeared. Surely Pavek was not the only one who missed his borrowed power. She knew she’d sleep more easily if Pavek demonstrated that once a mind had become a conduit for a sorcerer-king’s corruption, it could never master a more honest invocation of Quraite’s guardian.
She sat patiently, hoping for one outcome, but willing to be satisfied with the other. Then Pavek, suddenly and unexpectedly, abandoned his efforts.
“It’s impossible!” he explained with a disgusted snarl, tearing out a handful of grass and flinging it across the stream. “There’s no silent voice for me to listen to. Not even that damned ’cool wind’ of yours to follow. I know what I’m supposed to be looking for, and it’s not there. You lied to me, old woman. Cheated and deceived me. You knew it couldn’t be done, but you wanted to watch me burst apart trying. You wanted me to break my own spirit, to keep your own hands lily-clean. Well, I’ve seen your kind before: they’re all over the templarate. And I’ve learned not to play your games. I won’t make a fool of myself for your amusement. I quit instead!”
She could keep any emotion from shadowing her face, even the frustration she and the grove shared at that, moment. He’d come close. He’d come very close and brought the cup to his lips, but he had not sipped or swallowed. And she did not know whether disenfranchised templars in general, or only this templar in particular, were incapable of druidry.
Of course, if all templars were quitters…
But she wasn’t fool enough to think that. She sensed that Pavek’s shortcomings were uniquely his own.
“You lack patience, persistence, and, most of all, you lack faith of any kind in me, in my grove, in yourself. I’m the one who’s been cheated and deceived, Pavek. You said you wanted to learn; you lied. Find your own way, Just-Plain Pavek, if you dare.”
She gathered up her hat and veil, though the sun was close to setting and its light wouldn’t bother her eyes when she left the grove, left him here overnight. He was quite safe, unless he tried something destructive. And if he was foolish enough to do that, he deserved to spend eternity among the roots.
Pavek stiffened as she floated up from the ground. Fear was the dominant emotion on his face, and his thoughts were so focused on Ruari’s exhortation: Feed his bones to the trees, Grandmother, that the half-elf’s spiteful words echoed literally through the trees.
He shouted “Wait!” and without waiting to see if she heard or complied, squeezed his eyes shut.
Tilting her head to one side, listening to the guardian’s surge as it honored an evocation, she sank back to the grass. Pavek hadn’t suddenly acquired faith, but he was desperate, too desperate to think and, according to Akashia, this would-be druid was at his best when he wasn’t thinking.
There was no grunting or straining this time, merely a prolonged exhalation that emptied his mind as well as his lungs. She leaned forward, holding her breath as the guardian stirred. There was an image visible on the surface of Pavek’s mind: King Hamanu, the Lion of Urik, astride a mound of vanquished warriors with the severed head of one of them gripped in his upstretched hand.
Her blood froze: if Pavek summoned the sorcerer-king through Quraite’s guardian spirit, they were doomed. She willed herself to intercede, but Pavek held the guardian, and it resisted her.
She knew a moment of fear darker and deeper than any other in her life. She called on her own faith to sustain her, and then there was water.
Everywhere.
An otherworldly image of the Lion-King hovered above her spring, with water seeping from the wounds of the warriors beneath its feet. More water spouted from the mouth of the head he held in his hand. Water looped and spiraled and formed a swirling cloud around Pavek himself.
“A fountain!” she laughed, in genuine relief as water splashed her face. “You remembered a fountain! Water and stone together! Well done!”
Pavek’s fountain collapsed the instant her words penetrated his consciousness. He was drenched and dazed. For several moments he did not move at all. Her elation faded: a druid’s first invocation was the most dangerous, because the guardian must be released at its end. The more a neophyte druid invoked, the more dangerous the release. Pavek had invoked far more than the few splattering drops she’d expected, and there was a very real chance he’d invoked more than he could safely release. She held her breath, waiting for the ground to open and guardian to claim him.
Finally he blinked and raised his still-dripping hands.
“Water. My water.” He extended his arms toward her. “My water.”
She pressed her fingertips against his. It was an awesome personal accomplishment for a faithless man, and a chilling precedent.
“Yes,” she agreed solemnly. No need to share her doubts and concerns. “It’s a beginning, Pavek. The beginning of another race. Will you finish it? Can you win it?”
The innocent joy drained from his face.
“You can, Just-Plain Pavek,” she assured him, and herself, as she invoked Quraite’s guardian and rose above the grass. “Tomorrow. Here. Now, return home. Supper will be waiting for you.”

* * *

The moons had set and his clothes were dry by the time Pavek returned to Quraite. He’d hoped Yohan was the silhouette squatting by the lone fire, but it was Ruari instead. The half-elf looked up as he approached. Ruari said nothing, and Pavek didn’t either, once he saw his medallion hanging from the half-wit scum’s neck.