Don't believe, the dagger Shazzelurt had hissed in the zulkir's mind while he contemplated his spellcraft. Nothing is what it seems, Master. Nothing is unwatched. Leave, Master. Leave now!
The blade told the truth. The Aglarondan forest was thoroughly haunted-almost as haunted as the rolling hills of Thazalhar. Shazzelurt didn't approve of Thazalhar, either. Hiding himself as he'd hidden the horse, Lauzoril had settled down on the ridge crest to watch the chattel-kessir and wait until the air was dark enough for him to risk getting closer.
In Thay, the art and craft stealth was the province of assassins and though a good many Red Wizards worked as assassins in the hard years after they left their academies, Lauzoril hadn't been among them. He hadn't learned to move quietly until he was living in Thazalhar and wished not to disturb the fragile prairies as he walked through them. The zulkir had always been a good student; he eased down the ridge toward the stone circle unobserved, in advance of the rising moon.
The sense of magic grew stronger with each step, and though it didn't oppose his passage, Lauzoril quickly believed that it could, and in ways a Thayan zulkir would be helpless to counter-a belief that Shazzelurt confirmed continually in his mind until, with an act of will, Lauzoril had made himself deaf to the knife's complaints.
Lauzoril watched an argument brew between two of the chattel-kessir, a brown-haired woman and a brown- skinned man. He wasn't able to grasp its substance: They spoke their own language here, a language he didn't understand. It occurred to the zulkir, as he waited beyond the outer, taller circle, that he might successfully rescue the mongrel youth-even bring him back to the Thazalhar estate to serve his daughter-and be unable to speak with him. The Thayan dialect, though heavily influenced by Mulhorandi, was intelligible everywhere in Faerun, and elven types invariably understood common human speech; the challenge was getting them to admit it before they died of stubbornness.
He hoped it wouldn't come to that. He hoped he'd still have the chance to be the hero for Mimuay; and for the mongrel youth as well, who ought to be grateful to whoever rescued him from the Zulkir of Illusion or the Simbul of Aglarond. With the discovery of the partially looted Red Wizard corpses Lauzoril judged it unlikely that Invocation was behind the snatch. Aznar Thrul would never have left the gold and jewelry behind.
The argument ended with the woman laying down her weapons and entering the inner circle. The other chattel-kessir-crouched behind the tall stones, in the subtle draft of their power, the zulkir had begun to wish he knew what these people called themselves. They had a greater dignity than he'd imagined for them, a greater grace and beauty-even the stubborn woman who didn't want to dance and had been cajoled into leading the others.
Slaves danced in Thay, when they thought they could get away with it, making music on logs, bits of pottery and cast-off furniture, unless they'd been purchased for entertainment. Red Wizards never danced, even romantically inclined enchanters. The zulkir watched, enraptured, as the simple pipe melody grew complicated and wild. The stubborn woman surrendered to the swirling rhythm. She tore her hair and was transformed.
Lauzoril sat back, cursing himself for ignoring Shazzelurt's warnings. He expanded his awareness-his suspicions. The youth had been snatched by Mythrell'aa of Illusion because the woman, the stubborn woman whose brown hair now flowed silver in the moonlight was Aglarond's queen, the Simbul. He recognized her from descriptions Red Wizard spies funneled back to Thay and, more reliably, from the one time when he'd spied through his knife and felt her essence in his mind. He was a dead man if she felt his presence half as acutely. But, having abandoned herself to the music, she seemed oblivious to the world beyond the stones.
And then there was a column of light within the dancers' circle. It widened and coalesced into a horse-likely the twilight horse Aznar Thrul's spy master had mentioned-and a splendid woman formed from moonlight and mist. She said something in the forest language. The music stopped.
Lauzoril discovered that he was on his feet and had taken a step toward the light.
Shazzelurt manifested in the zulkir's thoughts, ever ready to dominate and exploit a weakened mind. Lauzoril's thoughts snapped into familiar patterns. He threw off the dagger's influence, and the silver-form woman's as well, just in time to sense magic hanging some ten or fifteen paces, withershins, away outside the circle.
A gate opened from another place, an illusory place, shrouded in shadow: Mythrell'aa's place. When the gate closed, three figures stood outside the circle: a woman and two men, a zulkir and her minions. One of them was the youth he and Mimuay had seen in the scrying bowl. The other, answering the silver-form woman's call, started walking toward the stone circles.
Be wary, Master. Begone. He bears the mark of Gur.
The mark of Gur, Lusaka Gur who taught the Red Wizards how to die effectively, and running, now, toward the Simbul.
Nearing the end of his fifth decade, the Zulkir of Enchantment was a wizard in full command of his talent, but it hadn't always been that way. As a young man, Lauzoril had become zulkir strictly on the quickness of his wits and his willingness to commit himself-to plunge blindly, if the naked truth were admitted-into action. Surprised or cornered, he was still that bold young man, but, now that he was a zulkir, he could cast spells of his school by will alone.
Lauzoril boldly cast a sphere of freedom and disenchantment on the running man. It wouldn't rid him of Gur's mark, but it would insure that he knew who he was taking with him when he died. The zulkir had a hunch that it wouldn't be Aglarond's witch-queen. Then, for his daughter, Lauzoril whispered the word that would transport him to Mythrell'aa's side. He was, perhaps, the last person Lady Illusion expected to see emerging from the Yuirwood shadows and she had never been the most quick-witted among the zulkirs. While her tattooed brow writhed in confusion, Lauzoril grabbed the bleak-faced mongrel with one hand and with the other delivered a bone-crushing punch to Mythrell'aa's sharp nose.
Magic spells had their place in Thay, but a well-made fist was still a man's best weapon in close quarters. Blood streamed down the zulkir's face as she crumpled to the ground. Freed from enchantment and whatever other compulsions Mythrell'aa kept about him, the marked man had stopped running. He stared at his arm-why, Lauzoril couldn't guess-then changed his course, running back the way he'd come, running toward him and Mythrell'aa as if his life-his death-depended on it.
Lauzoril wrapped both arms around the mongrel and broke the seal on a coward's retreat-a tiny enchanted artifact attached to his belt-that brought him, and the youth in his arm, back to his moss-covered stone horse just as the mark of Gur shook the ground.
Alassra couldn't stop. She couldn't stop the tears. She couldn't stop the tumbling between here and there, then and now. She couldn't stop, because she didn't want to.
For one moment, Lailomun was coming toward her: the love of her life whom she believed was dead, whom she hoped had died more than a century ago. He'd been smiling as he ran toward her with the mark of Gur incandescent on his brow. Alassra knew that mark and its variations. She'd seen it glowing on countless Red Wizards in the moments before they destroyed themselves utterly. Since coming to Aglarond, the Simbul had carefully researched the various spells of Lusaka Gur and found ways to foil them. Wisely, she'd made those foils a thoughtless part of her defenses-if she'd had to think, if she'd had to act consciously to defend herself from Lailomun, Mythrell'aa would have had her victory.
But a spell had come out of nowhere-from Zandilar, perhaps, or the Yuirwood itself protecting the sacred Sunglade. It had fallen around Lailomun's shoulders, and he'd stopped running. He'd looked at her, all love and longing. He'd looked at his arm-why, Alassra couldn't guess. He'd said something; she'd seen his lips move, but the sound hadn't carried and she didn't know what his words had been. Then he'd turned and run back toward Mythrell'aa who'd collapsed-from shock or horror-before the mark of Gur consumed him.
The mark was a powerful spell as Lusaka Gur devised it, but Mythrell'aa had compounded its effect. The blast sphere was larger and more destructive; and when it touched the outer limit of the Simbul's habitual defenses it triggered the counterspells she'd researched long ago. The spells would have carried her back to Velprintalar, if she'd let them, but Alassra chose drifting, tumbling, wallowing between guilt and despair.
It wasn't easy for a wizard of the Simbul's experience to lose herself, but she tried and settled, eventually, in a place of gentle darkness.
'You have found me. You are welcome, but you cannot remain here.'
The voice came from all directions. It was a sadly wise woman's voice, very much like Mystra's voice when the goddess first appeared to Alassra in the Outer Planes. The Simbul gathered her wits: her defenses and might. Her
