The Simbul's gift - Lynn Abbey [145]
The Simbul wasn't Zandilar. She wasn't a dancer. There were six other stones in the circle whose inscriptions had been eroded. She picked one of those stones, the northernmost stone.
"That's the wrong stone!" Rizcarn shouted.
On impulse, Alassra knelt before the stone. She traced what remained of its inscription. There were no legible marks. It was as if its god's name had been chiseled out before time had begun its work.
"Zandilar's stone, in the west, where the moon's light will surround you."
"This is my stone," the Simbul informed him, using a tone that made gods think twice before arguing with her.
Rizcarn-or his god-got the message. "We will begin together. Chayan, you will move to the center when it is the right time." He anticipated her next question. "You will know when it is the right time. There will be no doubt."
It was plain awkward at first. Alassra was conscious of every knee, ankle, elbow, and wrist. Her back was rigid and her hips simply would not sway to the twisting, twirling music that came from Rizcarn's silver pipes. No Red Wizard or Zhentarim mage had devised a crueler torture. As moonlight peeked through the trees, awkwardness became anger-the childish, self-destructive anger that had worried her Rashemaar guardians centuries ago. Alassra struck the man behind her hard enough to knock him to the ground; she only wished it had been Rizcarn and that the whole farce would come to a halt.
But Rizcarn was out of reach on the other side of the Cha'Tel'Quessir vine. To reach him, she'd have to move across the circle. That would be dancing, alone, and the time would never be right for that.
Never.
The moon rose above the ridge, huge and so bright it hurt, like the sun, to look at its face. Anger, frustration, and the knowledge that it was hours until dawn, pushed Alassra Shentrantra to distraction. She seized her hair-Chayan's brown hair-and pulled it out by the roots, letting her hair-the Simbul's silver hair-flow into its place. She became blue eyed again, and pale skinned. She threw back her head and screamed.
The power of the Yuirwood, so like the lightning essence she called upon when she fought her enemies and yet so different, too, rose within her. It burst through the pores of her skin, her eyes and mouth, the tips of her fingers. And then, as suddenly as it had ebbed, the essence waned.
"Who will come away with me?"
Rizcarn's music had stopped. The question came from the center of the circle where a silver-form woman stood beside a twilight horse.
"Who will dance with me?"
Alassra waited with the others. Her scream, and the power that answered it, had brought a sense of peace, of oneness with the world around her, that she had rarely known before. She was ready for whatever Relkath-or the Zulkir of Illusion-provided. The subtle play of magic beyond the paired circles didn't disturb her. Two people, possibly three, stepped from the shadows of magic to the shadows of the Yuirwood: Mythrell'aa-tiny, hairless, and patterned like a deadly snake-and one, possibly two, man-shaped companions.
"Who will dance with me?" Zandilar asked.
One of Mythrell'aa's companions started walking forward. Alassra readied a spell that would release four others: three to punch through Mythrell'aa's defenses, one to whisk Bro to safety. It wouldn't take a gesture or even a word to loose them; a thought, an intention would be sufficient and not even a zulkir's reflexes would be fast enough to counteract them.
She waited for the optimum moment when Bro was closer to her than to Mythrell'aa, for the moment she could see his face.
Not his face.
Not the face of Ebroin of MightyTree, but the face of Lailomun Zerad, smiling, laughing, running toward her.
28
The Yuirwood, in Aglarond
Nearing midnight, the twenty-fifth day
of Eleasias, The Year of the Banner
(1368DR)
Lauzoril had ridden the marble stallion for two days and nights without rest, guiding it across the breadth of Thay and