The morning was death with birdsong.
Wiz’s head was pounding, his eyeballs felt like they had been sandpapered and his mouth felt as if something small and furry had crawled in there and died.
Now I understand why they invented television, he thought as he splashed cold water on his face and neck. No hangover.
There was no food in the apartment and the only things to drink were water and a bottle of mead. The thought of the mead nearly made Wiz lose his stomach and the water wasn’t very satisfying.
Somewhere in the back of his head, buried under several layers of pain, he remembered that the wizards had a spell that cured hangovers. He needed that more than he needed anything else right now, except Moira. Afterwards he could get breakfast in the refectory with the inhabitants of the castle who chose not to cook for themselves.
He groped his way toward the Wizards’ Day Room where he expected to find someone who could put him out of his misery.
Naturally the first person he met was Pryddian.
The ex-apprentice took in Wiz’s condition in a single glance. “A good day to you, My Lord,” he said, much too loudly.
Wiz mumbled a greeting and tried to step by the man.
“What is the matter this morning, Sparrow?” Pryddian boomed, moving in front of him again. “Suffering from an empty nest?”
“Leave me alone, will you?” Wiz mumbled.
Pryddian was almost shouting now. “Poor Sparrow, his magic fails him this morning. All his mighty spells cannot even cure a simple hangover.” Again Wiz tried to move around him and again the man blocked his way.
“You need the help of a real wizard, Sparrow. Maybe he could make you a love philtre while he’s at it, eh? Something to keep your wife home at nights.”
Suddenly it was all too much.
Wiz whirled on his tormentor. Pryddian caught his look and stepped back, hands up as if warding off a blow.
“backslash,” he shouted.
The lines of magical force twisted and shimmered.
Wiz froze with his arm extended and his mouth open.
Pryddian shrank back, his face white.
Wiz dropped his arms. “cancel.”
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. I didn’t mean to . . .”
Pryddian gathered himself and beat a hasty retreat.
Wiz became aware that a dozen people were watching him from doors along the corridor. His face burning, he turned and fled.
Wiz had little less than an hour to contemplate the enormity of what he had almost done before Bal-Simba came calling. The giant black wizard was obviously not in a good mood.
“I must ask you this and I compel you to answer me truthfully,” he said as soon as he had closed the door. “Did you threaten to use magic on Pryddian?”
“Yes, Lord,” Wiz said miserably.
“And he did not threaten you first?”
“Well, he got in my face.”
“But he offered you no threat?”
“No, Lord.”
Bal-Simba looked as if he would explode.
“Lord, with the problems with the project and Moira gone and then him . . . Lord, I am sorry.”
Bal-Simba scowled like a thundercloud. “No doubt you are. But that would not have saved Pryddian if you had followed through with your intent. Magic is much too powerful to be loosed in anger. You above all others should know that.”
“Yes, Lord. But he has been riding me for days.”
“Is that an excuse?” Bal-Simba asked sharply. “Do you hold power so lightly that you will loose magic on any person who annoys you? If so, which of us are safe from you?”
“No, Lord,” Wiz mumbled, “it isn’t an excuse.”
The huge wizard relaxed slightly. “Pryddian’s behavior has not gone unnoticed. He will be dealt with. The question is what to do with you.”
He looked at Wiz speculatively until Wiz fidgeted under his gaze.
“It would be best if you were to absent yourself a while,” Bal-Simba said finally. “I believe matters can be smoothed over but it will be easier to do if you are not here.”
“Yes, Lord,” said Wiz miserably.
“In fact, this would accomplish two things,” he said absently. “I have received a request from the village of Leafmarsh Meadow. They have asked for one of the Mighty to assist them. That is sufficient reason for you to be gone, I think.