Free The Simbul's Gift by Lynn Abbey

could rise from many sources. Storytellers filled Aglarond’s long winter evenings with magic battles, invading Thayan wizards, and deaths too horrible to be described.
    The oldest tales were the same way throughout the land: humans and Cha’Tel’Quessir together, defeating common enemies. Since the deaths of the Gray Sisters a century ago, when humans took the Verdigris Throne, the tales had diverged. In the Yuirwood, the Cha’Tel’Quessir were grateful for the Simbul’s defense of the forest, but she could defeat whole armies on her own and, increasingly, the Cha’Tel’Quessir were inclined to let her.
    Let humanity fight its battles with human blood and magic, the tribal elders said; Cha’Tel’Quessir began and ended with the Yuirwood.
    Bro—Ebroin of MightyTree—had never felt closer to his Cha’Tel’Quessir roots than when a length of burning roof beam crashed to the floor between him and his sister. His first thought when he’d carried her outside was to run for the trees and the forest. His second, wiser, thought was that Tay-Fay couldn’t run that far. His third was for the colt, Zandilar’s Dancer, who could.
    He was halfway down the path to the barnyard when afourth, unwelcome, thought snuck into his overheated mind: the colt—
his
colt—might be the cause of this magic-born destruction. Although he hadn’t seen Zandilar since the colt was born, the memory of her was always near the surface of his thoughts.
    Come when you’re ready
.
    Even now the apparition shimmered behind his eyes. Had Zandilar danced for someone else? Had she withdrawn the invitation and come to claim the colt herself?
    Bro came to a flat-footed stop short of the barnyard. He stared at a fencepost, not knowing what held his attention until his mind snapped and he saw a man’s body—the lower half of it. Something—magic—had sliced through his gut. His upper half was missing, not flung aside or shattered, but gone. The gaping wound was dark and shiny. There was no blood, not on the ground, nor the post.
    The smell of roast meat was in the air.
    The boots were Dent’s.
    Bro’s bones froze. Shivering free of Tay-Fay, he dropped to his knees and retched without result.
    A small, light hand tapped his shoulder: Tay-Fay. Bro prayed to all the gods that she didn’t see what leaned against the fence post. For her sake, he gulped down his terror, raised his head, met her eyes. She pointed away from the fence post, at a man coming toward them.
    By his clothes, Bro marked the man as one of the grain traders who’d been at the mill since new moon. He’d had dark blonde hair then, but he was bald now and his face was dark and blotchy.
    Burns, Bro told himself, though even at this distance he could see that the marks weren’t burns. Scars, then—or
tattoos
. All the winter tales agreed that the Red Wizards covered their faces with tattoos and covered their tattoos when they came to Aglarond.
    Bad cess, Dent had said when the grain traders arrived a month before Sulalk’s grain was ripe. They were different men than those who’d come in previous years. Their prices were better and they paid in advance. That pleased some of the Sulalkers. They sold their grain while it was still on the stalk, but not Bro’s stepfather.
    I’ll wait, Dent had said. No good comes of selling the grain before it’s reaped, or selling it to strangers. Mark mewell, Bro, they’ve got something to hide. The truth will come out.
    And it had, out, for all the good truth had done for Dent. The traders were spies, Thayan wizards, and whatever their purpose in Sulalk, they weren’t leaving witnesses. The man had noticed him and Tay-Fay. They had one choice left: they could run and be blasted from behind, or they could stand and meet death face-on.
    Bro thought of a third choice. A scorched pitchfork lay at Dent’s side. Bro seized it