The Kingless Land - Ed Greenwood [43]
"You mean," Hawkril asked slowly, "that anyone who learns enough can be a wizard?"
"Almost," the healer snapped, as the shuddering sorceress in his arms shook him along the wall. Veins stood out on his flushed forehead as he wrestled with her. "It requires more patience than most folk have, an iron will to hold to a purpose-and a certain ruthlessness. That's why most mages act so grand or mysterious or sinister. They want others to think only special folk can become wizards so that few will pester them to become their apprentices."
The healer's growl broke off in a grunt of pain as Embra's thrashings bumped one of his elbows solidly against the stone floor, and he gasped out some curses and rolled away from her.
She twisted, like a dog scratching its back on a mat, and then fell still, leaving him the only one shuddering. Hawkril watched him hug himself in pain, like many a wounded warrior huddled around a campfire after a battle… but he was not clutching his bruised elbow.
"Sarasper?" he asked. "Are you-?"
The healer lifted a sweat-drenched face, looking as exhausted and gray as one of those wounded warriors Hawkril was remembering, and snarled, "Fine. Never been better. Must get up and frolic!"
He coughed, then, doubling over uncontrollably, and the two men of Blackgult exchanged uncomfortable glances as the healer retched and spat and groaned. When at last his shoulders ceased to shake and his breath lost its rasp and rattle-it seemed a very long time-Sarasper looked up, glared at them both, and growled, "Neither of you have the slightest idea how healers work, do you?"
He did not wait for them to silently and grimly shake their heads but instead turned to Embra. Looking searchingly into her still face, Sarasper seemed to see something reassuring. He rolled her into a more restful position, gently tugged her tunic back into place where her convulsions had almost laid bare one shapely shoulder, and then sighed heavily and looked away.
"It seems harder than when she worked spells," Hawkril said reluctantly. After a silent moment or two he added the query, "Could I cast spells like a wizard?" His voice was at once hesitant and eager.
Sarasper looked up at him, his hands on Embra's shoulders. "Someday, perhaps, if the need was great enough. But you'll have to lose something first."
"Oh?"
"Aye. Your good sense. To be a wizard of any power, it helps a lot if you're crazed."
Hawkril made a disgusted sound and growled sarcastically, "Thanks. I'll try to remember that."
Under the healer's hands, they heard Embra make a weak sound. It was a chuckle.
In the chamber in Castle Silvertree that all of the baron's pet mages were growing rather weary of, Ingryl Ambelter and Klamantle Beirldoun stiffened, exchanged glances, and shook their heads. Then they turned in unison to face the table where Faerod Silvertree sat, wine glass in hand, staring into its depths… doubtless on the verge of dozing. For that matter, Markoun had retired to his chambers; no matter what exacting private researches he'd claimed to be pursuing, by now he was assuredly snoring.
"Lord Baron," Klamantle said tentatively, and then cleared his throat and halted in confusion. His employer had responded not a whit. The baron's eyes were still seeing nothing, somewhere in the ruby depths of the wine, and he sat unmoving.
Ingryl strode forward and said firmly, "My Lord, we have, just now, both felt the shielding spell on the Lady Embra shatter and fade away. This leaves us not knowing her location or condition, henceforth."
With no change of expression, Faerod Silvertree told his glass almost delicately, "Graul the Horned Lady! Graul and rend her and all who stand in my way!"
He looked up, as suddenly as a falcon, and his glare was like a sword of fire.
"You will hunt down and capture my daughter right away, with no more gentle spells nor leisure for her," he snarled.