Authors: Elaine Cunningham
Since leaving the Jordaini College, I have been counselor to Procopio Septus, the Lord Mayer of Halarahh, and now to Queen Beatrix. I have learned that great wizards are flawed and fallible. I have mourned the “death” of Andris, my oldest friend, then reunited only to watch helplessly as he was stripped of all but the shadow of life. I expected to counsel wizards on battle strategy but not to test skill and courage in actual combat. Yet I have fought alongside my jordaini brothers, many of whom who were stolen from their lives by the false magehound Kiva. We defeated a dark and ancient evil, and we delivered Kiva to the stern judgment of Azuth’s clergy. Yet perhaps the most profound change has been wrought by my friendship with the street waif known as Tzigone.
I suspect that Tzigone, like me, has not been lavish in her prayers. Life has given her little reason to bless the wizards of Halruaa or-forgive me-their goddess. Yet Tzigone is like a gypsy lark, blithe and merry and full of song, despite an inner darkness profound enough to shroud her early memories. She seeks answers to the mysteries of her past and the truth of a mother she barely remembers. I suppose that Tzigone, like me, seeks to know who she truly is.
Her truth, my truth-I suspect that they are somehow linked. This belief defies logic and cannot be explained by my jordaini learning. Yet I know this to be so. My own heart is a stranger to me, but I perceive that it has its own logic and its own wisdom.
This vision, however, is young and far from clear. For the first time, great Lady, I recognize my need of you. Help me honor my oaths yet not betray my heart. Teach me to recognize truth when I see it, to know when to speak and when to honorably keep silent. These are not easy requests, and as 1 voice them, I suspect that you do not regret overmuch my previous silence! Nor am I fully at ease with the notion that a man can find his own way, guided only by the truth in his heart and the voice of a goddess.
Perhaps we will become more reconciled to each other as the days go by.
Sunlight beat down upon the hard-packed ground of the Jordaini College training field. A light breeze blew off the Bay of Taertal, bearing the tang of salt but no relief from the summer sun. Heat rose from the ground in shimmering waves, and sweat glistened on the bared chests of the two fighters who faced each other with drawn swords and fierce grins.
Matteo lunged suddenly, his blade diving low-an attack that, if successful, could hamstring a man and end a fight quickly. Andris easily blocked, then spun away. He came back with a flurry of short jabs, feinting high and low in a pattern too complex to predict. Matteo met each attack, enjoying the sharp clattering ring of steel upon steel as a sage might relish good conversation. It was all so familiar that for a few moments he could almost forget the changes this year had brought.
Yet, how could he?
Once Andris’s hair had been a rich auburn, his eyes hazel green, and his fair skin speckled by the sun. He used to jest that he’d be a fine hue, if only his freckles would have the courtesy to blend one into another. Now all these odd colors were but ghostly shadows. Even the sword in his hand was more like glass than metal. Andris was no more substantial than a man-shaped rainbow.
As if to disprove Matteo’s dismal thoughts, Andris pressed the attack. He came on hard, delivering a series of blows with real weight and power behind them. The two men moved together in a circle, exchanging blows in a rapid, ringing dialogue. As they fell into the new rhythm, Matteo noted that the morning was nearly spent-the sun was edging toward the dome that crowned the Disputation Hall. Both building and sunlight were clearly visible through the filter of Andris’s translucent form.
Matteo jerked his wandering thoughts back into line and spun away from a high, down-slashing blow. Holding his sword over his shoulder at a declining angle, he caught the attack in a deflecting parry. As Andris’s blade scraped along the length of the sword, Matteo shifted onto his forward foot to remove himself beyond reach of a possible counter. He whirled back, twisting his forearm as he went to position his weapon for a lunging attack.
A sudden burst of light assailed him. Instantly Matteo realized what Andris had done. He’d presented Matteo with a classic opportunity for a deflecting parry. In the moment while Matteo was turned aside, Andris had used his translucent sword like a prism to catch the morning sun and dart it directly into his opponent’s face.
Matteo danced back a few steps, blinking to dispel the dark spots dancing before his eyes. He was not quite quick enough. The flat of Andris’s blade smacked his hip. Matteo lowered his sword and backed away, rubbing at the offended spot.
“A good trick,” he admitted.
“I’ve a better one,” Andris said slyly.
The ghostly jordain came in again with fast, feinting attacks. While his sword kept Matteo fully engaged, Andris pulled a companion dagger from his belt. This he held high, adjusting his movements so that whatever the rest of his body might be doing, the dagger stayed at the same angle relative to the sun. Sunlight poured through the sheer metal of Andris’s dagger and concentrated into a thin beam. The thread of light seared the packed ground. Smoke began to rise from a blackened, spreading circle.
Such a weapon in any other hands could be death. Matteo had no fear of his friend, but he fought fiercely to solve the puzzle Andris presented. For many moments they battled toe to toe. It was all Matteo could do to meet each of his opponent’s attacks. There was no chance to counter, much less to maneuver Andris out of position and break the dagger’s focus.
Suddenly Andris shifted the dagger slightly. The line of red light split into two beams, one of which leaped up to nip keenly at Matteo’s arm.
Matteo yelped with surprise and jumped back. He quickly recovered and came in hard, catching the tall jordains lunging sword under his and bearing it down to the ground. He leaned forward, using his weight to drive the point of his sword into the dirt, pinning Andris’s weapon beneath it. With his free hand he seized the wrist of Andris’s dagger hand. Andris might be nearly a head taller, but Matteo outmatched him in mass and muscle. With a quick twist, he relieved the taller man of his dagger. Another twist brought Andris stumbling to one knee.
“You’re mine,” Matteo said triumphantly.
“I think not.” The tall jordain gazed pointedly at Matteo’s arm.
Matteo glanced down, and his lips twisted in a wry smile. The dagger-captured sunlight had burned a rune onto his skin-the rune for Andris’s name.
“It would appear that I am branded,” he admitted. He slid his sword into its scabbard and then tugged Andris to his feet, congratulating him with a hearty slap on the back. “And since the rothe cow is butchered and not the farmer, my claim to victory rings false! You have grown devious.”
The comment was meant in sincere admiration, but Andris’s sly grin dropped off his face so abruptly that Matteo expected to hear it shatter on the hard-packed ground.
“Better a devious mind than arrogant certainty,” he said.
“We jordaini wish to believe that everything is simple and nothing is beyond grasp.”
The bleak expression in Andris’s translucent hazel eyes surprised Matteo. “Many strange events have happened of late,” he agreed, “but at the heart of things, our goals are much as they ever were.”
The tall jordain shrugged. “Perhaps.”
Matteo’s sense of unease deepened. Hearing his own doubts spoken in another man’s voice lent them shape and substance. On the other hand, why should they not speak openly? Perhaps between the two of them, they might find some resolution.
“Tell me what has changed,” Matteo invited.
Andris tossed his sun-heated dagger into a trough of water and watched the steam rise and dissipate before he spoke his mind.
“You know that I have elf blood.”
Matteo blinked, surprised by this unexpected turn. “Yes. So?”
“So that changes everything. I don’t mean the obvious thing,” Andris clarified, gesturing toward his crystalline form. “My life’s path would be different even if my appearance had not changed in the Swamp of Akhlaur.”
They fell silent, remembering that terrible place.
Matteo spoke first. “Why should a distant elf heritage define your path?”
“Heritage is a powerful thing. Have you never wondered why jordaini are forbidden to seek the knowledge of our parents?”
A disturbing image flashed into Matteo’s thoughts: the memory of a small, forlorn woman trapped in the prison of her mind. If Tzigone had-for once-told the unadorned truth, this sad woman was his birthmother. By some odd twist of fate, Tzigone had found Matteo’s mother during a desperate search for her own. Matteo did not understand her passionate need for family, but he recognized the same emotion in Andris’s ghostly eyes.
“The jordaini order has its reasons,” Matteo said, trying not to dwell on Tzigone’s hints concerning the identity of his other parent “So you have elf blood. Now that you know this, are you a different man than you were before?”
Andris spun away and strode to the neat pile of gear he’d left at the edge of the field. He stooped over a leather bag and took from it a small, sparkling object.
“Knowledge brings responsibility,” he said as he held out his open hand.
In it lay an exquisite statue, a tiny winged sprite no longer than his palm. It appeared to be fashioned from crystal and was as perfect in every detail as a living creature-as indeed it once had been. Matteo marveled that Andris could hold it. In the Swamp of Akhlaur Matteo had accidentally bumped a crystalline elf, and found that it was not solid glass, but an elf-shaped void far colder than ice.
He placed a hand on his friend’s translucent shoulder. “The elves in Akhlaur’s Swamp and the sprite whose image you carry were freed by death, long before your birth. There is nothing more to be done. It is you who concern me, my friend. After the Azuthan priests do what they can, you must put this behind you and take up your duties as a jordain.”
Andris shrugged and turned away, but not before Matteo glimpsed a world of turmoil in his eyes.
“You are dreading this inquisition,” he observed.
“Wouldn’t you?” his friend retorted. He was silent for several moments as he tucked the tiny crystalline sprite away, then he stood and faced Matteo. “You know clerics. They will test and talk and poke and pray until even Mystra herself tires of it all. They might eventually add to their understanding of magic, but they won’t answer the important questions: Why did I survive? Why did Kiva? She’s an elf. Why wasn’t she swallowed in a crystal void like all the others?”
“Perhaps Kiva could answer that.”
Andris’s eyes lit up. “She has revived?”
“Not at last word,” Matteo said. “The magehounds who tested her say that much of her strength was lost along with her magical spells. It seems that life and magic are more intrinsically bound in elves than in humans. They say it’s a marvel she survived.”
An impatient sigh hissed from between Andris’s teeth. “The temple hosts more clerics than a bugbear has ticks. None of them could heal her?”
“I asked the same question.” Matteo shook his head in disgust. “Kiva holds knowledge vital to all of Halruaa. Yet the clerics maintain that praying for healing spells to benefit a traitor would be sacrilege.”
Andris muttered something unintelligible. He strode over to retrieve his white tunic, which he slid over his head. The fine linen turned translucent as it settled over his torso. The jordain stooped again to pick up a water gourd. He uncorked it and drank deeply. Matteo half expected to see the passage of water down his friend’s insubstantial throat, but the water disappeared as soon as it touched the jordain’s lips.
Andris caught him watching and lowered the gourd self-consciously. Instantly Matteo averted his eyes.
“Forgive me. I did not mean to stare.”
“No magic, no penalty,” he said flippantly, dismissing Matteo’s apology with a catchphrase common to jordaini lads. “So what will you do now? Return to the queen’s palace?”
Matteo shook his head. “It seems to me that Queen Beatrix has less need of my counsel than Halruaa does of my active service. Kiva did not close the gate to the Plane of Water but merely moved it. This new location must be found. I have also pledged to help Tzigone find her mother, or at least to learn of her fate.”
“I don’t envy you your first task, but the second should be easy enough. Kiva described Keturah as a master of evocation magic. Such wizards are well known. All you need do is ask.”
“It’s more complicated than that,” Matteo admitted. “Questions could draw unwanted, even dangerous attention to Tzigone. No one else can know that she is Keturah’s daughter. I must have your word that you will never speak of it.”
light broke on Andris’s face, swiftly replaced by horror. “Lord and lady! Matteo, you don’t mean to tell me that Tzigone is a wizard’s bastard?”
“No, I didn’t mean to tell you,” Matteo retorted, “but there it is.”
Andris raked a hand through his faintly auburn hair and blew out a long breath. “You keep interesting company, my friend. Does anyone else know?”
“Other than Kiva, I think not.” He told Andris about the note Kiva had forged, a letter purporting to be from Cassia, the king’s jordain counselor, asking all jordaini in the city of Halarahh to aid in the search for Keturah’s daughter. “At first I thought this news was widespread, but Kiva meant it only for Tzigone’s eyes and mine. She meant to lure us both to Cassia’s chamber, and from there to the Swamp of Akhlaur, by dangling Tzigone’s heritage before her like a carrot hung before a hungry mule.”
“What carrot did you follow?” Andris asked, his ghostly hazel eyes suddenly shrewd and concerned. “The girl herself?”
The question was not unreasonable, and Matteo considered it carefully before answering. Yet he could find no words to explain his friendship with Tzigone. “I suppose so,” he admitted.
Andris scowled. “You know, of course, that jordaini are forbidden to marry.”
The image of Tzigone, her urchin’s grin replaced by a prim smile and her eyes demure under a maiden’s veil, was so ludicrous that Matteo burst out laughing.