The Western Wizard (24 page)

Mitrian turned a questioning look at Shadimar.

The Eastern Wizard shrugged. “It makes no difference. Whether you find Arduwyn now or at sundown, we still can’t leave until morning. You might as well let Garn look at the weapons.” He smiled ever so slightly. “I wouldn’t want him to die for lack of gawking.” Without awaiting a response, Shadimar strode off into the crowd, Secodon trotting after him.

“Wait!” Mitrian started after the Wizard, but Garn caught her arm.

“Where are you going?”

Mitrian pointed in the direction Shadimar had taken. “We forgot to decide where and when to meet.”

Garn chuckled, jingling the gold in his pocket, his attention already straying to the glimmer of armor and shields on a nearby table. “Do you think for a moment that he’ll have difficulty finding us?”

Mitrian recalled how she had first met the Eastern Wizard. She had fallen asleep while daydreaming about a sword the blacksmith’s son promised to forge for her as a birthday present. The Wizard’s magic had spirited her to his storm-wracked ruins where he had given her a pair of topaz stones to place in the hilt of her sword in exchange for the largest gem in her collection, a sapphire he had called the Pica. She had awakened in her bed, with the yellow gems present and the sapphire gone. Her hand went naturally to the wolf’s head that formed the pommel of her sword, running her finger over its topaz eyes, feeling the winding flaw that she had broken in one of them during the Great War. Now, in Pudar’s market, Garn’s words made her laugh. “No, I don’t suppose Shadimar would have any trouble finding us.” By the time she finished speaking, Garn had already drifted to the stand.

While Garn browsed among protections that Renshai
dismissed as cowards’ crutches, Mitrian glided from tables of artistically wrought silver to bowls of gems.

*  *  *

Shadimar had little interest in the material wonders of Pudar, yet he meandered through the crowd, hoping to distract himself from the burden of his thoughts, if only for a time. He pulled his travel-stained cloak taut about his skinny frame, scanning stands of exotic vegetables, toys, and tools, on the teeming masses of locals and foreigners that filled the square, and the entertainers who hawked their talents for the spare change of the shoppers. For a time, Shadimar managed to shed his mental burdens for the rich baritone of a musician who accompanied himself with a battered lute; but even that peace did not last long. Before the singer reached his final notes, thoughts of the Western Wizard again invaded Shadimar’s mind.

Colbey witnessed Tokar’s ceremony of passage.
Shadimar reviewed Trilless’ message, aware he needed to act, and soon.
If he initiated his ceremony of passage, then Tokar is clearly dead.
The conclusion did not surprise Shadimar; more than forty years ago, Tokar’s apprentice, Haim, had successfully completed the Tasks of Wizardry. Since the apprentices did not achieve near-immortality until after their predecessor’s ceremony of passage, a Wizard did not take an apprentice until his time had neared. And Tokar’s failure to complete the many prophecies set for him during and after the Great War had caused Shadimar to become alarmed. It had been the Western Wizard’s duty to gather most of the armies of the Westlands; instead, Colbey had done so, instructed by a note from Shadimar that he had received in Tokar’s absence. It had been the Western Wizard’s job to find the Renshai who would become the Golden Prince of Demons, keep him safe, and guide him to the Great War. Instead, while Shadimar had concentrated on Mitrian and Carcophan on Rache, Colbey had found his own way to the war. And the Western Wizard, not Shadimar, should have accompanied Sterrane to his throne.

The crowd split around Shadimar and his wolf, some muttering rude comments as they passed. Blinded by the intensity of his thoughts, the Wizard ignored them. He
pictured Haim as he had looked after the Tasks, a gawky Pudarian youth with shaken features and undisguised insecurity and fear. To Shadimar, Haim had seemed a poor choice; yet his questioning had only earned him Tokar’s wrath. For whatever reason, the eldest and most powerful of the Wizards had selected a weak successor. And now, Shadimar feared, the transfer of the Western Wizard’s lineage might have proven too much for Haim.

It killed him.
Shadimar clenched his hands, assailed by grief and rage. A worse thought struck him.
What if Haim isn’t dead? What if the process drove him mad?
The possibilities seemed endless, ranging from tragic to dire.
He might be cowering in a cave somewhere, paralyzed by the responsibilities thrust upon him
. Shadimar had never heard of such a thing happening, yet he also knew how cautiously the previous Wizards had chosen their apprentices. The memories of his own predecessors shifted through him, sifting out instances where Wizards had reacted poorly to their power. Most brought forth stories of the ninth Western Wizard, Niejal the Mad. Prone to violent outbursts and prolonged periods of sulking, Niejal had also suffered from episodes of sudden, complete memory failure. He had attempted suicide multiple times with knives, falls, and hanging, apparently forgetting that objects of law could not harm him.

There had been others. The fourteenth Western Wizard had contacted his peers only once, when he had sent his chosen apprentice to the Tasks of Wizardry. The eighteenth Eastern Wizard had become obsessed with summoning and dispelling demons, making five successful contacts before one killed him. And even Tokar had stayed mostly a loner. One of Shadimar’s forefathers hypothesized that the collective consciousness itself had driven Niejal mad, overwhelming him with the need to consult and understand a vast myriad of strong personalities of both sexes. Following that logic, Shadimar had to guess that the longest uninterrupted line, that of the Western Wizards, might become particularly vulnerable to insanity, especially with a known lunatic already ingrained in its perceptions.

In that respect, the eighteenth Eastern Wizard’s death had given Shadimar an advantage he had always before
seen as a lapse. He carried the memories of only five predecessors compared to Tokar’s nineteen, Trilless’ eighteen, and Carcophan’s ten. Still, at this time in history, the world could not afford to lose the collective consciousness of the Western Wizard. The power and knowledge that it had amassed through the millennia would prove absolutely necessary to prevent the doom forecast to occur during Shadimar’s own reign as Eastern Wizard.
Haim must be alive; the future of all men, Wizards, and gods depends on it. I have to find him, rebuild his character, and train him to use the powers of his inheritance.

Secodon whined. Pained by the depth of his master’s concerns, he sat, flopping a huge paw onto Shadimar’s knee. The touch drew Shadimar from his contemplations, and he tried to console himself with information that raised more questions than it solved.
Colbey watched the ceremony of passage. He may have answers.
Yet Shadimar knew Trilless had to have a more personal reason for sending the message. She would not have done so simply to point out Haim’s failing; a weak or absent Western Wizard unbalanced the world to her advantage as well as to Carcophan’s. For some reason, she wanted Shadimar to confront Colbey.
Danger there.
Shadimar felt certain, though the details of that menace eluded him. He had nothing to fear from the old Renshai who had joined with him in a blood brotherhood. Shadimar patted Secodon’s head, and the paw withdrew. The wolf’s plumed tail waved.

Absently, Shadimar drew a silver
chroam
from his pocket and tossed the coin at the musician’s feet. Without awaiting a “thank you,” he turned and headed into the crowd, the wolf again trailing after him. He tried to focus his attention on the lines of stands, forcing himself to assess the quality of silks, gems, and brass trinkets to keep from falling back into musing. One thought kept trailing back.
Colbey saw the ceremony. What was an old Renshai doing at such a private affair? Did he do something to spoil the ceremony? Could he have harmed Haim?
This last speculation raised ire as well as curiosity.
Colbey swore a blood oath with me at the Great War. So why did he keep this information from me?

Shadimar’s annoyance rapidly turned to anger. Ignorance made him irritable; until he knew the Western Wizard’s fate for certain, he had no right to call a Wizards’ meeting. Even the best of the possibilities scared him. He seemed unable to escape thoughts that he had too long worried like a dog with a bone, and he still harbored outrage over Morhane’s treachery in the Béarnian clearing.
There was a time, not so long ago, when no one lied, cheated, or stole; and a man’s word was as unwavering as the cycle of day and night.

A nearby hiss shocked Shadimar from the thoughts that had again overtaken him. He spun to face a muddy-eyed merchant in a robe, woven through with shimmering fabrics, and a matching skullcap. “Wizzzzard,” he said.

Accustomed to being addressed by this name, if not in this manner, Shadimar naturally surrendered his attention. Ordinarily, he would have found the man’s dress humorous, but drawing a Cardinal Wizard from deep mental consideration of the world’s fate seemed intolerable, no matter how much he had been trying to do so himself. The dark scowl he assumed should have left no question of his displeasure.

The merchant paid no heed to the Wizard’s expression, apparently too pleased by Shadimar’s attention to care. His mouth twitched into a grim smile. He adopted a tone of consequence, attempting to use an ancient dialect that sounded like a crude parody to one old enough to remember when such formality was standard. “My instincts fail me not. I recognize ye as of the true order, not the scoundrel lot of mages and quacks.” He closed one eye, cocking his head sideways conspiratorially. “Ye carry an aura of power.”

Shadimar glared, uncertain what to expect yet doubting it would do anything more than fuel his temper. One lie would damn his control. “I warn you. I have no mercy for rogues who waste my time. What do you want?”

The merchant continued in a dramatic singsong. “I’ve many magics to interest one so powerful. The sovereigns of a dozen mighty kingdoms journey far ways to me to supply their wizards: Erythane, Bruen, Loven. I alone sell true magic.” He waved a hand with a grand flourish. “Even the high magistrate of Béarn comes to me, and
the Western Wizard descends from the mountains each month to purchase . . .”

Inflamed by the mention of the Western Wizard, Shadimar crooked a bony finger at the blue-cloaked merchant. “You’ve nothing but bottles filled with as many tricks and lies as your mouth.” Secodon punctuated the words with a warning growl. “I am the only sorcerer Béarn has. The Western Wizard had no need for your false potions, and neither do I.” He tossed his head with all the fury of the tempests that surrounded his ruins. “A man who deals with Wizards would know that they cannot lie and that they deplore mortals so touched by chaos that they cannot be trusted. Speak one more word to me, and you will regret it.” He spun to leave.

“Wait!” The vendor reached for Shadimar’s shoulder.

Secodon lunged for the offending arm. With a cry, the merchant recoiled. The wolf’s fangs ripped cloth. As his paws touched the ground, he crouched, dark gaze fixed on the merchant.

The merchant’s face went deathly white. “Can’t . . . can’t blame a . . . merchant trying to sell his wares.”

Shadimar reined his anger, and the wolf’s sinews uncoiled. The man’s voice grew more steady. “Please, allow me just one demonstration to prove that my goods are real.” He wound his fingers in the tear in his sleeve.

Shadimar stopped, knowing that it was folly. Rather than distracting him, the merchant’s false promises only reinforced the many breaches chaos had found in the world of mortals. Still, he waited, hoping that Secodon’s attack had shocked the man back within the confines of Odin’s law.

Color crept back into the merchant’s cheeks, and he hefted a jar half-filled with sorrel dust. He fell back into the ancient rhythm. “Know ye, O mage, that contained in this crusted phial is solid fire.” The merchant’s voice trailed off as he assumed a dramatic stance.

Shadimar bit his lip, shaking his head in warning. Secodon growled.

But the merchant had fallen into a well-rehearsed patter and seemed oblivious to the threat. “Not,” he continued suddenly, “not the soot of coals spent nor the flickering orange of a normal campfire. Trapped within
this phial, I have the incandescent whirlwind of magical fire, the kind that blazes emerald and lavender.”

A cluster of curious Pudarians gathered, attracted both by the theatrics of the merchant and the statuesque Wizard. The merchant’s strategy became clear. Just Shadimar’s presence before his stand was enough to draw attention. It was not the Eastern Wizard he was trying to attract, but a horde of customers lured by Shadimar’s apparent interest.

Used, Shadimar reddened, further enraged by the merchant’s obvious disregard of his warnings. Clearly, like most men of his era, the merchant did not believe in the Cardinal Wizards and, thus, saw no threat in anything except the wolf.

The vendor uncorked the flask, dumping powder into his right hand. He made grand gestures with it that attracted every eye, except Shadimar’s, who focused on the lump of flint concealed in the man’s left hand. With grossly exaggerated eloquence, the merchant pulled both arms to his body. A flick of his wrist scratched the flint across his buckle, and he used the spark this caused to ignite the powder. He tossed the flaming chemical in a wide, turquoise arc that landed at Shadimar’s feet, sputtered, and died there. Head thrown back and arms wide, the merchant reveled in the crowd’s gasps of amazement.

Furious at the charade, Shadimar spoke a single harsh syllable.

From the charred pile of ash, flames shot toward the sky in deep olive, indigo, and dappled cream, as strong and wild as a living thing. Its heat darkened the wooden stand. The crowd scurried, and the merchant leapt for cover as his wares burst into varicolored fires.

Quietly, Shadimar left Pudar’s market. And the wolf padded calmly in his wake.