The Simbul's gift - Lynn Abbey [32]
Which Bro hadn't.
The troublesome youth had attacked her four times, not counting his initial plunge into the Simbul's spellcasting periphery as she prepared to whisk the colt to safety in Velprintalar, fully intending to return for him and his sister. She'd gone to Sulalk prepared for spell-flinging wizards, not grief-maddened Cha'Tel'Quessir. Alassra knew three-score variations on the simple spells for sleep and tranquillity, but she hadn't foreseen a need for such gentle magic and, notwithstanding the shelves of worn spellbooks in her workroom, there was an absolute limit to the number of spells she could retain in her mind.
The first two times he'd attacked, she'd quenched his rage with paralysis, the least of the wizardly arsenal she'd brought to the village. After that, Alassra had cast her last paralysis spells on the little girl and the colt-lest they compound her problems-and beaten him into submission with her staff.
She could-and feared she might have to-pound the youth to death's threshold with her staff, then heal him back to health several times more.
"Ebroin, this grows tiresome. I have more important concerns."
He got one arm braced and levered himself into a weary, bleeding crouch. His eyes were narrow when he raised his head, but Alassra thought he'd learned his lesson. She took a step backward, to show she meant no further harm.
"Your gods' curse on you, Queen of Aglarond," the youth swore-the precise, formal oath of a deep forest Cha'Tel'Quessir and language Aglarond's human queen didn't want to hear when she was standing in the Yuirwood in a time other than her own. "Your gods' curse on you," Bro repeated, "for a murderer and a thief."
Alassra could hear the trees growing eyes and ears. She'd slain many men for lesser insults but this time she remained calm… relatively calm for a woman who'd been nicknamed the storm queen long before she took possession of Aglarond's throne.
"Murderer? Murderer! The Red Wizards are murderers, Ebroin. They murdered your mother and stepfather." She'd pieced that much of his history together from his other curses. "If I hadn't been there, you'd be dead, and your little sister as well."
"If you hadn't been there to steal Zandilar's Dancer, neither would they."
"I had-I have no intention of stealing your colt, Ebroin. You'll be handsomely paid, in gold."
"He's not for sale! I was going to-" Bro stopped in mid-thought. Anger drained from his bruised face, leaving grief behind.
"You were going to what?" Alassra asked, sensing that she might not have to strike him again. "What were you going to do?"
Bro had collapsed while she asked her questions. His forehead rested in his fingers and his knuckles rested on the leaf-covered ground. Alassra knelt beside him. Compassion was not the Simbul's greatest strength. The Rashemaar witches who'd raised her considered it a luxury. Her own temperament regarded it with suspicion-as the youth might. They certainly shared a tendency toward stubbornness.
"Did you have an argument with your parents?" she asked.
He shook his head; whatever haunted him, it was worse-in his conscience-than a quarrel-opened breach that could never be repaired.
"The past is past, Ebroin, There's no going back to this morning."
Never mind that they were displaced backward in the world's time, it was the mind and body's time that mattered. The spells locked in Alassra's staff could take them almost anywhere, but they'd arrive there the exact same number of moments after her miscast Sulalk spell as they'd lived out of time in the Yuirwood. There'd be no detours to another morning, no second chances. The gods were very strict about such things, and Mystra's Chosen- especially her Chosen-were bound by the gods' rules.
"You have to face the future,