The Sorcerer's Widow. Lawrence Watt-Evans
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LEGENDS OF ETHSHAR
The Misenchanted Sword
With a Single Spell
The Unwilling Warlord
The Blood of a Dragon
Taking Flight
The Spell of the Black Dagger
Night of Madness
Ithanalin’s Restoration
The Spriggan Mirror
The Vondish Ambassador
The Unwelcome Warlock
Tales of Ethshar
The Sorcerer’s Widow
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2013 by Lawrence Watt-Evans
All rights reserved.
*
Published by Wildside Press, LLC
www.wildsidebooks.com
CHAPTER ONE
Kel shaded his eyes against the bright afternoon sun and gazed at the little cluster of buildings ahead. “Is that it?” he asked.
“I suppose so,” Ezak replied, walking steadily up the path. “We followed the directions.”
“It’s tiny,” Kel said, hurrying to catch up. “I see…” He paused and counted silently, jabbing his forefinger at the air, then said, “I see just six houses.”
“Four,” Ezak corrected him. “One’s an inn and one’s a blacksmith’s forge.”
“Four,” Kel said, musing. “Four? Just four houses?”
“Just four. But there are at least thirty or forty families on the farms around it.”
Kel glanced at the surrounding fields, and the scattered houses of the families that tended them, then turned his attention back to the village ahead—if so small a gathering could even be called a village. “This sorcerer lived in one of the four?” he asked.
“That’s what Uncle Vezalis said.”
“Who lives in the other three?”
Ezak turned up an empty palm. “Who knows? Some of the farmers, I suppose.” He gestured at the fields. “Somebody must be growing those crops, after all.”
“Oh.” Kel once again looked around at the vast expanses of knee-high green stalks. “Is that wheat?”
“I don’t know,” Ezak said. “Do I look like a farmer to you? I haven’t been outside the city walls any more than you have. It could be wheat or beans or pumpkins, for all I know.”
Kel frowned. “I don’t think it’s pumpkins.”
“Neither do I. Now, smile and wave—there’s someone looking at us.” He suited his own actions to his words, and Kel, seeing the two women standing in the cleared area among the six buildings, waved vigorously.
“Do you think one of them is the sorcerer’s widow?“ Kel asked, lowering his hand.
“Probably,” Ezak said through his forced smile.
The two women were definitely watching the two young men approach; one of them waved back, a single quick gesture. The women were of very different heights but appeared to be similar in age—past the flower of youth, but not yet gray and wrinkled.
A moment later the two men marched onto the little patch of bare earth that served as the village square and the village’s only street, then stopped and stood facing the two women. Kel realized the shorter woman was no taller than he was himself.
Ezak slid his pack from his shoulder and said, “Hai! We’re looking for the home of Nabal the Sorcerer.”
The two women glanced at each other; then the taller, darker one said, “I’m afraid Nabal’s dead.”
“Yes, we had heard,” Ezak said. “We came to pay our respects, and to help build the pyre.”
“You’re too late for that,” the dark woman said. “We spread his ashes on the fields a sixnight ago.”
“Ah, what a shame!“ Ezak slumped visibly. “He was a good man.”
The shorter woman spoke for the first time. “You knew Nabal?”
“We were apprenticed to the same master,” Ezak said proudly.
The two women looked at each other. “You must have come well after him,” the tall woman said.
“He made journeyman just as I turned twelve,” Ezak said, spreading empty hands. “He left in Rains and I started in Greengrowth of the same year, but I used to hang around and pester him when I was little.”
“You don’t look that old,” the tall woman said.
Kel glanced worriedly at Ezak. The story seemed to be getting out of control—how old was this Nabal? Ezak just smiled. “Well, thank you! I’ve been told I look younger than I am.”
Kel looked at the women, unsure whether they were convinced. He could not read their expressions.
“What did you say your name was?“ the shorter woman asked.
“Ezak of Ethshar,” Ezak said. “Ezak the Sorcerer.”
“Who’s he?” the taller woman asked, pointing a thumb at Kel.
“Oh, that’s Kelder. He’s a friend of mine—it’s a long journey to make alone.”
“Kelder. Just Kelder?”
“We call him Kel,” Ezak offered.
Before anyone asked, Kel volunteered, “I can talk. I just don’t, much.”
“To whom do we have the honor of speaking?” Ezak asked quickly.
The taller woman said, “Irien the Innkeeper.” She gestured toward the nearest building. “I have a room if you need one. This is Dorna. Nabal’s widow.”
“Ah!“ Ezak turned to the shorter woman and bowed deeply. “My sympathies on your loss.”
“I’m sorry, too,” Kel murmured.
“Thank you,” Dorna said, with a bob of her head.
“I’m sorry we missed the funeral,” Ezak said. “I really did want to see his soul on its way. Is there anything we can do for you, then, to make up for our tardiness?“
“No, I don’t think—”
“Could you perhaps use our assistance with his talismans?“
“No, I—”
“I mean, you’ve lived out here all your life, while we’re from Ethshar—perhaps we could give you some advice on how to get the most money for whatever trinkets he might have had.”
“Honestly, I’m fine,” Dorna said. “I haven’t decided yet what to do with his things. There’s no hurry.”
“Oh, of course, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to rush you,” Ezak said. “You take your time, all you want, and you can find us when you’ve decided. Meanwhile, dear Irien, you said you have a room? Even if we’ve missed the funeral, we’ve no need to rush off—this is such lovely country around here! Such fresh air!” He thumped both fists on his chest as he drew a deep breath.
Kel watched this without comment, and did not imitate his friend; he thought the air out here smelled funny.
“I have a room, if you have money,” Irien said.
“Of course.” Ezak jingled the purse on his belt. Kel knew half the “coins” in it were just metal scraps Ezak had picked off a tinker’s floor, but the innkeeper didn’t.
“This way,” she said, gesturing.
The two men picked up their packs and