Bro agreed. "It's our forest. The Red Wizards are our enemies, too. The Simbul would never know if I told Yongour and the others-"
The forester held up his hand. "Don't even think about it, Ebroin."
"The Simbul doesn't know everything. She's not always right. Everyone's dead in Sulalk because of her." Bro could almost feel Chayan and Halaern wishing he would be quiet. They were looking at each other, not at him. "I'm not blaming her, not anymore, but the Simbul's not here, we are, and so are the Red Wizards."
"He has a point, cousin," Trovar Halaern said; Bro felt himself grow a handspan in his own estimation. "My lady, the Simbul, is not here, is she?"
Chayan looked very uncomfortable.
Bro pressed his luck. "More Cha'Tel'Quessir could be killed, and not just me. What about Lanig? What happened to him? Chayan said that was magic, too."
"Lanig?" the forester asked.
"Cha'Tel'Quessir," Chayan said quickly. "Ebroin and I found his body yesterday across the camp stream. Looked as if he'd been torn apart by something large, but my best guess is magic."
"Not Red Wizard spells, cousin. There were no wizards near the camp yesterday."
"You're certain? The solitaire didn't double back?"
"There were no wizards near the camp yesterday, cousin. If a man died by spellcraft yesterday, something else killed him, something far more subtle than any Thayan wizard, if neither you nor I knew about it until after it happened."
It was Chayan's turn to stare and the forester's to look uncomfortable. Bro had a suggestion:
"Why don't you come to the camp? Rizcarn's not there and they need an elder, especially with Red Wizards and worse all around us."
"I serve the Simbul, Ebroin, and she wants me in the forest for now. I'll send you back with Chayan. The two of you together should be equal to an elder. I'll take my leave of you now, cousin and friend. I'm sure your day will be more interesting than mine."
The elder of YuirWood bowed, took two steps into the forest and simply vanished. Bro couldn't contain his astonishment. His jaw dropped and he'd swear he heard Chayan laughing, though her lips hadn't moved.
"You seem to have recovered fully from your misadventures."
"The holes hurt a little, the cautery burns itch a bit. I–I want to apologize for the way I was yesterday. I think, maybe… I hope it was poison."
"I could check: take off your shirt and the bandages, see if everything's healed."
She was teasing him again, seeming to say one thing while meaning another. Bro kept his shirt laces where they were. "We should go back to the camp."
"Has something happened? Aren't they still debating whether to walk or wait?"
"I told them to wait until tomorrow, then start walking."
"Clever of you, Ebroin. You have another day to finish healing. You don't like the Simbul much, do you?"
"I said I'd stopped blaming her. Maybe it wasn't her fault or mine that everyone died. I wish it never happened. I wish a lot of things never happened."
"Everyone does. Me, my cousin, even the Simbul herself. I could wish you hadn't fallen asleep last night."
Bro fought a blush and won. "There're Red Wizards all around us, and whatever killed Lanig."
"I'll keep one hand on my spear, Ebroin. That way, we'll be evenly matched."
If he'd had the sense Great Corellon gave a lowly ant, Bro would have started walking back to the camp, but he didn't, not even when Chayan left her spear right where it was, leaning against a tree.
He was pleased with himself later, when they did return, hand in hand, to the camp. At least until he saw a Cha'Tel'Quessir with raven hair. Rizcarn hailed him as soon as he was inside the camp.
"This isn't right," Bro whispered to the woman at his side. "If he went to MightyTree, he wouldn't be there yet. He shouldn't be back."
Chayan released his hand and pushed him slightly forward. "Do what you must, Ebroin. I've still got my hand on my spear and an eye for your back."
A spear, Bro thought, wouldn't be much use against his father, but he didn't tell brash Chayan that. He tried to hold onto her confidence, instead, when he returned Rizcarn's open-armed greeting. Rizcarn offered concern for Bro's health and joy for his recovery-all the things that had been missing between them. They came too late. Bro suspected affection now as much as he'd suspected the lack if it earlier.
He asked about MightyTree. Rizcarn insisted he'd walked day and night.
"Urell wept when I told him about the dirt-eater village. He wishes you well, Ebroin, and says you must come to MightyTree when you're well. He gave me this."
Rizcarn produced a carved black bead. Bro stood still, thinking hard, trying to decide what to believe, while his father added Shali's death-bead to the others on his talisman string and retied them around his neck.
"I sang for her at MightyTree last night, but we'll sing again, tonight, right here, until our hearts break."
There was a catch in Rizcarn's voice, tears on his cheeks, but Bro flinched when Rizcarn embraced him again. Chayan caught his eye. She brandished her spear and Bro followed his father to the center of the camp where a fire burned and a jug of honey wine was waiting.
23
Thazalhar, in eastern Thay Afternoon, the twenty-third day of Eleasias, The Year of the Banner (1368DR)
"Watch closely," Lauzoril told his daughter. "Bubbles have begun to form at the bottom of the bowl. The water will boil soon, just as it does in the kitchen. I rub the mustard oil on my fingertips, then I place my fingertips on the water very, very carefully. Look close: the water rises up to meet my fingers. The oil spreads across the surface without breaking it."
Mimuay scrunched down on the stool she was under strict orders not to leave. Her eyes were level with the bowl rim. "Isn't it hot, Poppa? Doesn't it hurt?"
"Of course. Not all spells hurt when I cast them, but many do. If you wish to be a wizard-especially if you wish to be a necromancer-you must learn to ignore discomfort. Now, I say the catalyzing word-Envision-and lift my fingers."
Mimuay gasped as the mustard oil became a bronze sheen on the water. "It's a mirror!"
"Not yet. It reflects nothing." The Zulkir of Enchantment held his hand over the bowl to prove his point. "I must tell it what to reflect, and quickly, or the magic will fade. Several years ago, I sent a gift to a queen. I gave it a name. Now I want to know what's become of it, so I call its name: Kemzali."
The bronze oil dulled. His daughter sighed with disappointment.
"It takes time, Mimuay. Kemzali is far away."
Usually the zulkir made contact with the knife by mental exercise, but today he was teaching his daughter the most important spell she'd ever learn: the means by which she'd be able to detect the presence of magic. He had to cast spells a rank beginner would be able to detect, which meant his old scrying bowl and burned fingers.
"When did you learn to Envision, Poppa? Were you younger than me?"
He'd given up trying to discourage his daughter and took pride in her questions, her persistence. "Much younger. I told you: I grew up among wizards, not in a home with family around me. My life was learning spells."
"Since I'm starting older, will I ever be as good a wizard as you?"
"Casting Envision spells when I was four didn't make me a good wizard."
She thought hard for a moment. Scowl lines were already forming on her forehead. Lauzoril waited for the next question.
"Were you happy growing up among wizards, without a family?"
Which were never the questions he expected, but he'd committed himself to answering them all, and honestly. "I never thought about it. The wizards taught me. I did what they told me to do." Until he was knowledgeable enough to rebel; then they'd thrown him out of the academy, as every other Red Wizard got thrown out at the end of his education.