“Foolishness,” grumbled Ugo, poking up the fire.
Eight
Forlorn Hope
The long golden days of Indian Summer dragged by at Heart’s Ease. Moira worked in the garden or the kitchen. Wiz chopped wood and mooned over Moira. If the tensions within the household did not ease, at least they did not to grow significantly worse.
There was always work to be done and the time rolled forward with everyone except Wiz fully occupied. But for all of them, except perhaps Ugo, there was a sense of being suspended. Greater plans and long-range decisions were set aside awaiting word from Bal-Simba and the Council on what was to be done with Wiz.
For Wiz everything depended on what the Council found. If he did have some special ability then perhaps he could redeem himself with Moira. At least he would be able to make himself useful and stop feeling like a parasite.
In his more realistic moments, Wiz admitted he couldn’t possibly imagine what that ability might be. The image of him standing before a boiling cauldron in a long robe and a pointed cap with stars was simply silly and the thought of himself as a warrior was even worse.
“Lady, may I ask you a question?” Wiz said to Shiara one day when Moira wasn’t around. The former wizardess was sitting on a wooden bench on the sunny side of the keep, enjoying the warmth from the sun before her and the sun-warmed stones behind.
“Of course, Sparrow,” she said kindly, turning her face to his voice.
“Patrius was a great Wizard wasn’t he?”
“One of the greatest the North has ever seen.” She smiled reminiscently. “He was not only skilled in magic, he—well—he saw things. Not by magic, but because had the kind of mind that let him see what others’ sight had passed over.”
“But he didn’t make mistakes very often?”
“Making mistakes is dangerous for a wizard, Sparrow. Magicians who are prone to them do not last.”
Wiz took a deep breath and rushed on. “Then he couldn’t have been wrong about me, could he?”
Shiara paused before answering. “I do not know, Sparrow. Certainly he was engaged in a dangerous, difficult business, performing a Great Summoning unaided. If he were to make a mistake it might be in a situation such as that.
“On the other hand,” she went on as if she sensed Wiz’s spirits fall, “Patrius could look deeper and see more subtly than anyone I ever knew. It may well be that we cannot fathom his purposes in bringing you here.”
“Do you think the Council will figure out what he was up to?”
Again Shiara paused. “I do not know, Sparrow. Patrius apparently confided in no one. The members of the Council are the wisest of the Mighty. I would think they would discover his aim. But I simply do not know.” She smiled at him. “When the Council knows something they will send word. Best to wait until then.”
In the event it was less than a week later when word came to Heart’s Ease.
It was another of the mild cloudless days that seemed to mark the end of summer in the North. Wiz was up on the battlements, looking out over the Wild Wood—and down at Moira who was busy in the garden.
“Sparrow,” Shiara’s voice called softly behind him, “we have a visitor.”
Wiz turned and there, standing next to Shiara was Bal-Simba himself.
“Lord,” Wiz gasped. “I didn’t see you arrive.”
“Such is the nature of the Wizard’s Way,” the huge wizard said with a smile. “How are you, Sparrow?”
“I’m fine, Lord.”
“I am happy to see that you made your journey here safely. Although not without peril, I am told.”
“Well, yes, Lord, that is . . .” Wiz trailed off, overawed by the wizard’s size and appearance.
“I will leave you now, Lord,” Shiara put in. “Doubtless you have things to discuss.”
“Thank you, Lady,” Bal-Simba rumbled.
“What did you find out?” Wiz demanded as soon as Shiara had closed the door.
“Very little, I am afraid,” Bal-Simba said regretfully. “There is no trace of magic in you. You are not a wizard and have not the talent to become one. There is a trace of—something—but not the most cunning demons nor the most clever of the Mighty can discern ought of what it is.”