The Simbul's gift - Lynn Abbey [7]
"Fine, young man, come dance with me!"
Locks of Bro's hair twisted on his neck and a touch soft as feathers, warm as life, caressed his arm. Bro clutched the cuff of his boot before he sprang to his feet. There was a knife-a dark-steel Cha'Tel'Quessir knife-in his hand when he stood, wary of an enemy he could feel, but not see.
"Fine, silly, young man! Come dance with Zandilar!"
He saw her then, hovering above the grass: a slender apparition in silver and gold. Cloaked in dazzling light, the apparition had no sex nor race, but her laugh was feminine, as was her manner. She sat astride a twilight horse whose black legs disappeared in its shadow.
A golden arm stretched out to trace the angle of his cheek; Bro's knees weakened. He staggered backward into the tree, dropping his knife as well. Her laughter shook the tree. Leaves brushed Bro's face as they floated down.
"Come dance with Zandilar in the Yuirwood, fine young man. Come when you're ready. I'll wait for you in the Sunglade!"
Zandilar spoke the Cha'Tel'Quessir dialect with a lilting accent as if ordinary words were a magical melody. When she wheeled the twilight stallion and galloped south, toward the Yuirwood, Bro yearned to follow her, but after three strides, they simply vanished.
"Sunglade," Bro whispered Zandilar's parting word. He'd never visited the Sunglade, but Rizcarn had spoken of it in reverent tones: the oldest stone circle in the Yuirwood, older than the Cha'Tel'Quessir, built by the Yuir, the wild and full-blooded Sy-Tel'Quessir from whom Bro and all his scattered kin claimed descent.
The youth's pulse quieted. His hand was steady when he slipped the fallen knife into the boot sheath. There was no more reason to be frightened. He'd fallen in love, just as Shali predicted, and he'd dance with Zandilar when the twilight colt could carry him to the Sunglade-in two years, just as he'd planned. With Zandilar shimmering in his memory, no human girl would tempt him to break faith with the Cha'Tel'Quessir. With Zandilar waiting in the Sunglade, the next two years would be tortuously slow, but when they'd passed, he and the twilight colt, Zandilar's Dancer-the name appeared suddenly in Bro's mind-would be ready.
*****
Hours past midnight, in a distant part of Faerun-in Shadowdale, to be precise-in the privy chambers of the mage, Elminster, to be absolutely accurate-a silver-haired woman sat bolt-upright in bed.
"Zandilar?" she muttered, cross-grained and clutching a corner of the mage's linen. "Zandilar's dancer?"
Nearby, the great mage tidied his abundant beard. "What disturbs you, Alassra?" He laid a gently restraining hand on her forearm, deterring her from the shape-shifting magic that was her reflex response to unmeasured danger.
"Zandilar. The name came to me in a dream from Aglarond."
No surprise there. These days, Alassra Shentrantra, Chosen of Mystra, was better known as the Simbul, the storm queen of Aglarond, and she took her ruling responsibilities seriously. Little in Aglarond passed beneath her knowledge. If Zandilar had penetrated Alassra's rest here in Shadowdale, then Zandilar was important. Elminster racked his prodigious memory for answers to questions that would almost certainly be asked.
"A god, I think," Alassra muttered.
"A goddess, Zandilar the Dancer," the Old Mage corrected. "Once of the Sy-Tel'Quessir in the Yuirwood."
The silver hair shimmered as Alassra nodded. "There's a stone in the Sunglade that bears her name-one of the smaller stones within the elven Seldarine circle."
Elminster made a light and, in the chamber's northern corner, a brazier came to life beneath a ceramic pot kept filled with water. "You're aware of the rumor that some of the Cha'Tel'Quessir seek to arouse the powers of their distant ancestors?"
Alassra rose from the bed with the singular grace possessed by all seven daughters of Dornal and Elue Shundar. She clothed herself in a gown of plain-woven linen and knelt beside the brazier.
"Of course I'm aware of rumors,"