"So do the drow."
Matteo blinked in surprise, but then he saw the sense of it. "The dark fairies saw your love of battle, and turned it against you. That's what overcame you, and what causes you to doubt yourself still. They twisted it, Themo."
"Not by much," the big man responded. "During that battle, I relived every mistake I've ever made, and every dark secret I have. That wasn't all-it was like I was responsible, personally, for every wrongdoing in Halruaa's past."
Fear, bitter and burning, rose in Matteo's throat like bile. If Themo suffered so in a short battle with the dark fairies, how was Tzigone faring in the Unseelie Court? Until now Matteo had been able to temper his concern with memories of her quixotic sense of honor. Tzigone was no paladin, but she had courage and a good heart.
Yet if Themo could be tormented by knowledge of history, how much more torture could be extracted from Tzigone's gift of reverse divination? She could relive the past, bringing it back as vividly as a storytelling illusionist.
"Sorry, Matteo. Those who step in rothe piles shouldn't wipe their feet on their friends' carpets."
Matteo looked up sharply, startled by this odd and unfamiliar proverb. "Pardon?"
"I didn't mean to pile my troubles onto your shoulders," Themo rephrased, misunderstanding Matteo's sudden, somber turn.
He shrugged. "No magic, no penalty," he said, speaking a phrase they'd often used as lads. These chance-spoken words triggered an inspiration. As boys, they'd fought like a litter of puppies. Some of Matteo's fondest memories were the moments he and Andris and Themo and their jordaini brothers had spent pummeling each other into the dust.
"Palace life will be the ruin of me," he complained, patting his flat stomach. "Too much wine, not enough exercise. I'd be grateful for a practice match."
He noted the tentative interest dawning in his friend's eyes. "It would infuriate the greenmages, which would no doubt raise your spirits," he added.
"There's that," Themo agreed with a fleeting smile. The big jordain reached for his tunic. He pulled it over his head and buckled on his weapons belt. "Better go out through the window," he commented, glancing toward the open door.
Matteo followed him, climbing over the low windowsill into a courtyard garden. He glanced around the "battlefield." Low, soft, green moss grew underfoot, sprinkled with tiny, yellow flowers. A fountain played into a shallow fishpond in the center of the courtyard. The trees that shaded the garden had been trimmed so that the lower limbs were well out of reach.
He drew his sword and raised it to his forehead in salute. Themo mirrored the gesture, then fell back into guard position.
Matteo made a short, lunging feint. The big jordain wasn't fooled. He shifted onto his back foot and came back quickly with an answering attack. There was no weight behind it though, and Matteo easily parried. The first tentative exchange finished, they broke apart and circled.
"You are less familiar with a sword than with the jordaini daggers," Matteo commented. "Shall we change weapons?"
Themo grinned. "Feel free. I don't mind the extra reach."
As if to demonstrate, he brought his sword up in a high arc, swishing above Matteo's head. This left his chest unprotected, but Matteo was not tempted to attack. Despite his size, Themo was cat-quick, and coming within his longer reach would be foolhardy.
Instead Matteo ducked and spun, moving in the direction of Themo's swing. Rather than parry, he struck his opponent's blade, speeding it on its sweeping path and putting Themo slightly off balance.
The big jordain recovered quickly and brought his elbow back hard. Matteo leaned away from the blow so that it just grazed his tunic, then danced nimbly aside.
Themo came on with a series of jabbing attacks, which Matteo met in quick, ringing dialogue. They moved together, skirting the edge of the fishpond.
Matteo noted the glint in his friend's eyes and reviewed his memory of the courtyard's layout. The fountain was but two paces behind him. For a moment Matteo was tempted to allow his opponent to back him into the water. He quickly discarded this notion. Even if the ruse was lost on Themo-and that wasn't likely-Matteo had always thought deliberately losing a match was a lie told with weapons rather than words.
He shifted to his right and spun away. Three quick steps brought him up behind Themo. He swept his blade in, level to the ground and turned so the flat of it would smack the big jordain on his backside.
Themo took the taunting blow, then with a speed astonishing for his size he whirled and seized a handful of Matteo's tunic. He threw himself back, dragging the smaller jordain with him.
They went down together with a resounding splash. Matteo pulled away and got his feet beneath him-and promptly tripped over one of the pots that held water lilies.
The big jordain planted a hand on Matteo's chest and shoved. Down he went again. When he came up, sputtering, Themo was already out of the pond, grinning like a gargoyle.
"A wise fighter uses the terrain," his friend reminded Matteo.
The smaller man waded toward his opponent. "I didn't expect you to take the fight into the water."
"You should have." Themo lunged again. Matteo ducked under the attack and came up hard, knocking the sword aside with his blade and following with a punch just below the ribcage. Themo folded with a resounding "Oof!"
"Good one," he congratulated in strangled tones.
Matteo used the brief respite to climb out of the pond. He lunged suddenly, his sword diving low. The big jordain leaped over the blade and stepped back. His sword traced an intricate, circular pattern, a mixture of challenge and bravado.
On Themo came, his weapon leaping and flashing. With each blow, his grin broadened. His dark eyes sparkled with reborn joy as Matteo met each attack and responded in kind. After many moments they fell apart, gasping for air.
"I won," Themo said in a wondering tone.
Though the match was a draw, Matteo did not disagree. What Themo had lost was his once again. Matteo made his farewells and spoke a few placating words to the thin-lipped greenmages who had gathered to observe the mock battle. As he left, he heard Themo's teasing responses to his healer's scolding, words that quickly drew the heat from her words. The last thing he heard was the greenmage's laughter, sounding surprised and pleased and entirely female.
Matteo chuckled, pleased that Themo could indulge his non-jordaini inclinations.
He would not be the least surprised if the big man headed to the port city of Khaerbaal at first opportunity to renew his acquaintance with a certain good-natured barmaid.
His smile faded quickly. Tzigone, the friend who needed him most, would not be so easily rescued.
* * * * *
Never had Tzigone been so weary. Gasping for breath, she sank to the ground, not caring about the sodden moss, not feeling the chill.
They had come again, the dark fairies. This time they had pulled from her the memory of the first few years of her life, after her mother had been captured and she had been a child alone. For years Tzigone had sought to recover these memories, thinking to find in them the key to who she was. Now she was grateful for the darkness that had shrouded them for so long.
Tzigone flopped onto her back, willing herself to breathe slowly and deeply. She had run for what might have been hours, fleeing from one terrifying memory only to find herself enmeshed in another. She might be running still, but her Unseelie tormenters had released her. If they ran her until her heart burst, they would have no more pleasure from her.
Seeking rest and escape, she traveled deep into her memory-past the traumas of a street child, past the time spent as daughter of a fugitive wizard. The secrets of her own life had been bared. If there was answer for her, a way out of this endless prison, it was not in her lifetime, but her mother's...
It was twilight, Keturah's favorite time, and the three young wizards with her seemed as happy as she to be out under the open sky. The four of them stood on the flat roof of the guesthouse, watching as the setting sun turned the storm clouds over Lake Halruaa into a dragon's hoard of shining gold and ruby and amethyst. Behind them loomed Keturah's tower, its green-veined marble gleaming in the fading light.
Keturah watched as the apprentices practiced a simple spell of summoning. Earlier that day, she had taught them to call the bats that emerged with the coming of night-tiny, chameleon bats that changed color as they wheeled against the sunset clouds.
The youngest apprentice, a girl not yet in adolescent bloom, had donned gloves of bright pink silk. A bat landed on her hand, hanging from her finger like an endearingly ugly fuchsia blossom. The girl's laughter was happy and excited-childhood's magic blended with that of her emerging Art. Keturah chuckled in sympathy.
A bell tolled from the garden below, indicating a visitor too important to ignore. Keturah signaled the students to continue and headed for the stairs to answer the summons.
Her visitor was an elf, an exceedingly well-favored male with coppery skin and a strikingly handsome face. But for his traditional white garments and the bright blue, green, and yellow enameling on his medallion, he might have been mistaken for either a warrior or a professional male courtier. Keturah knew him by name and by sight, as did most of Halarahh society. King Zalathorm might be reclusive, but the same could not be said of his queen. Fiordella enjoyed grand fetes and festivals, and she was frequently seen in the company of Zephyr, her favorite counselor.
Keturah put the gossip firmly out of mind and exchanged the expected pleasantries. As soon as she could do so without offending proprieties, she asked what service she could render her queen.
"No more than is required of all wizards," Zephyr observed sternly. "You will follow Halruaa's laws."
Keturah blinked. "How have I failed?"
"You are not yet wed."
"That is so," she said cautiously, "but I am young, and in no great hurry."
"You are six and twenty," he pointed out "Wizards are required to marry before the age of five and twenty."
"I have never heard of that law," she protested.
"Most wizards are early wed, so it is seldom necessary to evoke this law. But a law it is, my lady, and you cannot flout it."
"I suppose not," she said, and sighed. "I will consult a matchmaker before moondark."
"There is no need. The match has already been made."
Keturah's heart seemed to take flight, only to reach the end of its tether and thump painfully back into place. "It is the woman's prerogative to initiate the match!"
"There are exceptions," he pointed out. "From time to time, it is determined that one wizard's lineage is exceptionally well suited to that of another."
"Determined? By whom?"
"The match was submitted to the Council of Elders and approved."
Ordinarily, suggested matches could be appealed, but if matters had gone that far, there was no undoing them.
"Who was chosen for me?" she said resignedly.
"Dhamari Exchelsor."
Disbelief swept through her like an icy wind. "That is not possible! He was my apprentice. It would be unseemly."
"He left your tower nearly a year ago," the elven jordain pointed out. "His current master deems him ready to test for the rank of journeyman wizard, generalist school. His specialty is the crafting of potions. He will not require your tutelage in the Art of evocation."
Keturah took a long, steadying breath. "When two wizards matched for marriage are already acquainted, it is custom to consider the nature of their feelings. Never did anything pass between us that should lead to marriage!"
"He has already agreed. The match is made and approved. It is done but for the wedding feast, which I understand is set for this very night." The jordain cocked his head and considered the clatter approaching Keturah's gate. "That would be the Exchelsor family. As mistress of this tower, should you not greet them?"
Moving in a daze, Keturah went out into the courtyard. Dhamari Exchelsor entered the garden, his expression strangely shy. Keturah took a small amount of comfort from this. If she was to be overwhelmed by events far above her control, at least she was not alone.
Dhamari was closely followed by his family and their retinue. They had a priest of Mystra in tow and servants bearing trays upon which were arranged the traditional marriage items: a silver chalice, a scroll, a small, jeweled knife. One of the servants held a robe of crimson silk that was richly embroidered and encrusted with gems. This she held out to Keturah, clucking indignantly over the woman's simple tunic and bare legs.
"Now?" Keturah murmured, sending a look of appeal toward the queen's counselor.
Zephyr shrugged. "Why wait? The matter is settled."
Moving like one in a dream, Keturah allowed the servant to help her into the robe, to tie the marriage cord around her waist.
She echoed the spells of binding and drank from the chalice when it was given her. When they handed her the ceremonial knife and pushed back the sleeve of her robe to bare her wrist, she stood for a moment studying the pulsing life beneath her skin.