The Western Wizard (45 page)

Mitrian wiggled free of the restraining arm, patting Garn to indicate that he should sleep. Tiptoeing around the sleeping forms, she crept to the hallway and toward the dining room.

Within a few steps, Episte’s voice floated to her from a cross corridor. “. . . said Rache’s father and mine hated each other. She said Garn broke my father’s back and bragged about it afterward.”

The words froze Mitrian. She had always known this moment would come, yet the constant threat or presence
of war had allowed Garn to delay his heart-to-heart with his son. Though Santagithi had kept the guards quiet, Mitrian knew snippets of rumors would slip past. Guilt came in a rush for leaving Shadimar to handle this delicate history, yet she had promised Garn not to do so herself. And, though she hated to admit it, she wondered how the ancient Wizard would reply.

Shadimar cleared his throat, speaking with the annoying indirectness that had become too familiar. “Chance is man’s cruelest mistress. She acts without logic or motive, and you must never attribute her works to gods or mortals.”

In the silence that followed, Mitrian crept closer. She knew eavesdropping was wrong, but to announce her presence meant dealing with an issue she had promised to avoid. She considered waking Garn, but interest held her spellbound. For the sake of her son and Episte, she could not miss any of the conversation. Though he had, as yet, said nothing, Mitrian guessed Rache was with them.

Impatience tinged Episte’s voice. “Are you saying chance crippled my father?”

Shadimar’s placid baritone wafted clearly to Mitrian. “Chance placed your fathers against one another when other circumstances might have made them friends. Episte, your father begged Garn to raise you as he lay dying. And Garn named his only son for your father. Does that sound like an exchange between enemies?”

“No,” Episte admitted.

Mitrian came forward, pleased by Shadimar’s approach.

Episte’s next statement stopped her cold. “If he hadn’t been a cripple, would my father still be alive?”

“That is not a question with an answer.”

Finally, Rache joined the conversation. “It doesn’t matter, Episte. Our fathers were stupid to hate each other. We’re brothers. What our fathers did means nothing to me.”

Mitrian hugged the wall, feeling its cold seep through her. She knew she should make her presence known, yet her feet and her tongue seemed tacked in place.

Episte’s next words made it clear that Rache had missed
the point. “Of course, it doesn’t matter. Because crippled or not, my father never knew his limits. My mother said he was a battle seeker who craved death more than he did her or me. Colbey taught him, and, when it came to war and death, he was just like Colbey.”

Shadimar hesitated only a moment. “Your mother should not have said those things.”

“Are they lies?” Episte shouted. When he did not receive an immediate answer, he repeated the question more quietly but with more force. “Are . . . they . . . lies?”

“There are ways,” Shadimar said, “to say the same things with kinder words. Any Northman, especially any Renshai, might seem so to one who doesn’t understand the philosophy.”

Rache piped in. “Your father was a hero who died in glory and went to Valhalla. I’m proud to have him as my guardian. Have you ever heard anyone call him anything but the greatest captain and the greatest hero the town ever had? Without him, the guards would never have lived as long as they did.”

“If the guards had been a little less competent, maybe we wouldn’t have fought this war at all.” Bitterness tainted Episte’s voice, and Mitrian thought she heard fatigue as well. “And my mother might be alive. Better a slave who returns to his son than a dead hero. What good is it to have a hero for a father, or any father at all, if he never
never
comes home?”

The conversation had gone too far for Mitrian. She walked to the doorway with long, sweeping strides so that no one would guess that she had stood so long listening. “Good morning.” She smiled, but the reference to Garn as a slave in front of his son dampened the cheerfulness of her greeting.

Shadimar sat across the table from the two young Renshai. Steam rose from their mugs, swirling in wisps toward the ceiling. All three appeared well-rested, though the teens still wore leather tunics and breeks spotted darkly with sweat and grime. A fire danced on a pile of orange bricks in the hearth, the flames licking around a hanging pot. Shadimar rose, returning Mitrian’s smile. Blue robes hung loosely from his narrow frame. His
beard and hair looked neatly combed, as always, and his gray eyes seemed heavy with knowledge. “Good morning, Mitrian. Join us for tea.”

Secodon’s head appeared from under the table. He stood, tail waving, limped to Mitrian, and pushed his nose against her hand. Laughing, she patted the wolf’s head, her fingers tracing one triangular ear.

A knock echoed through the horses’ room, reverberating from the net of blueberry bushes and the stumps of crumbled statues. The noise sounded feeble; had the chamber contained furniture, Mitrian would never have heard the tap at all. The Eastern Wizard stiffened as if affronted, and his gray eyes widened with surprise. The wolf crouched, stalking the outer door.

Remembering that the wolf mirrored its master’s mood, Mitrian became wary. Her chest seemed to constrict with a mixture of warning and anticipation. Recalling that Shadimar had known of her presence, and that of the Northmen, before she arrived, she questioned. “Who is it?”

Shadimar followed Secodon, and Mitrian kept pace with the Wizard. “I don’t know,” he said. And, though his voice remained as placid as usual, his words told all. Someone or thing had violated his wards. Clearly that had never happened before.

Mitrian glanced back to check the positions of Rache and Episte and discovered they had followed her. In her moment’s pause, Shadimar moved ahead, stopping directly before the heavy, stone panel. Mitrian doubted any sound could penetrate the door, yet the Wizard shouted. “Who seeks entrance to my home!”

Silence followed. Shadimar must have thrown some magic, because now Mitrian could hear the storm pounding the ruins. Beneath the hammer of the rain came a weak whisper, words borne on a dying breath. Despite the frailness of the voice, it still managed to carry a hint of sarcasm. “You’re such a damned good Wizard . . .” A shuddering breath broke the stream. “. . . 
you
tell
me.
”

Shadimar jerked open the door. Colbey took one staggering step inside, then collapsed on the floor. Shredded strips of cloth were wound about a body gashed and
striped with wounds, stained scarlet. She saw the white gleam of shattered ribs poking through the flesh and a dark hint of exposed organs beyond. A muddy pool of water dripped from his hair.

Mitrian froze in shock and horror, uncertain whether to hope for Colbey’s life or his death. She hovered between joy and grief. Already, she had accepted his death. As much as she wanted to celebrate his life, she knew his ephemeral grasp on it had probably just disappeared on Shadimar’s floor. Having his body only meant that she could give him the proper pyre, the need for which had probably driven him here, through storm and enemies, though he should have died long ago. And she took solace from the fact that all his limbs remained intact. Finally, Colbey would find Valhalla.

Shadimar bent over Colbey, studying him from every angle before rolling the Renshai on his back. Colbey’s eyes were closed, his features lax but no less stern. The Wizard shoveled his hands under the Renshai’s shoulders. “Rache, gather some herbs. There’s a field to the south. Look for anything with pink flowers.” The Wizard mumbled something unintelligible, and the rain lessened to a trickle. Rache stepped carefully over Colbey and outside. “Mitrian, Episte, help me carry him.”

Mitrian knelt, catching one leg, and Episte gripped the other. Through the chill of Colbey’s sodden breeks, she felt an intense heat. His fever and the steady trickle of blood onto the bandages told her that he still lived. But if his wounds did not take him, infection surely would. Balancing Colbey’s weight among the three of them, Mitrian and Episte followed Shadimar down the corridor, past the room in which the survivors slept, and into the next chamber. A straw pallet filled one corner, a closed chest at its foot. Beside it, a round table rested on four boulders, an unlit candle melted to its center. Cloud-muted sunlight spilled through a high hole with jagged edges. Clearly, some heavy weapon had smashed the stone, and it had not always been a window.

Shadimar carried Colbey to the bed, and they set him gently on the straw. Episte sat, cross-legged, on the floor, clutching one of the elder’s limp hands. Shadimar knelt, placing both of his palms on Colbey’s forehead. Mitrian
waited in silence. She had some healing knowledge, learned from Colbey, yet her teacher required far more than she could give him. Uncertain what else to do, she set to work mechanically, removing bandages and bits of clothing. Blood stained her arms, still a bright red.

Shadimar spoke in a language Mitrian did not understand. Holding pressure against the tear in Colbey’s chest, she glanced to the head of the pallet. To her amazement, the Renshai’s eyes opened to slits. His hand trembled momentarily in Episte’s grip, and she saw hope flicker in the youth’s eyes. Then the lids fell closed again, and every muscle in Colbey’s body relaxed. Mitrian still felt a steady heartbeat beneath her grip. Uncertain how hard to work, Mitrian let Shadimar make the judgments. As much as she wanted Colbey to live, she kept her hopes in check. If he was certain to die, she did not wish to prolong his suffering. And, there was no doubt in her mind that he was in pain. “Can you help him?”

“I don’t know,” Shadimar replied, rocking back to his haunches.

Mitrian needed something more definite. “What do you think?”

Shadimar stood. “What I think is of little consequence. What Colbey thinks is all that matters now.” Unnervingly calm, the Eastern Wizard turned from his guests and left the room.

*  *  *

King Sterrane of Béarn paced the castle corridors alone, his massive feet clomping echoes along the hallways. The hollow sounds made him lonely, hungry for the playful screams and running footfalls of the children who had once filled these halls. Illness had taken too many. He had buried his cousin, along with three of his own children, and two of Bel’s. Yet Miyaga’s death seemed not to deter Rathelon’s bid for Béarn’s throne at all. Individually and in bands, his followers had fallen prey to imprisonment or to battle, and Sterrane had lost many of his own guards to Rathelon’s evil. Though the skirmishes had diminished greatly, they never seemed to end. And what Rathelon missed, the Pudar-borne illness ravaged, thwarting Sterrane’s need to assist allies he loved, some of whom had helped him regain his own
kingdom and had probably already succumbed themselves.

The finery of the palace walls had never held meaning for Sterrane; since childhood, strings of gems and imported carvings had filled his gaze in all directions. He had not missed any of it during his years with Shadimar nor, later, as a hermit in the Granite Hills. Now, the animal-shaped torch brackets seemed to mock him, wealth that had translated to nothing when it came to saving Béarn’s allies and citizens. And its children.

Tears washed Sterrane’s eyes. He would have cried unabashedly, even had the corridors been filled with courtiers. Apparently sensing the bearlike king’s need to be alone, even Mar Lon and Baran had discreetly disappeared. Sterrane appreciated their attempt to read his sorrow. Yet he had always preferred the company of people, even when burdened with responsibilities they could not understand and he would never think to share.

Sterrane shuffled toward the nobles’ quarters, mind filled with the Eastern Wizard’s words, spoken so long ago he did not understand how or why they had remained with him so vividly: “The King of Béarn is an anchor, a center for all forces working upon mortals and the world, at times the passive balance that even the Eastern and Western Wizards cannot be, at others an active force of stabilization. When your times comes, Sterrane, you will always make decisions. No matter their content or reason, their seeming grandeur or insignificance, the effects will radiate further than you can guess. Still, you must make those choices with the same simple logic you use to rule your life. When the time comes, you will make the ideal high king.”

Sterrane kicked at a familiar scuff mark on the stone, feeling like anything but the ideal king. Surely, the gods had had reason for plaguing his lands with traitors and disease, for stealing all of his attention at a time when true allies needed his aid. He could only believe that, when Santagithi’s Town fell, it would do so with honor and dignity. For all of the Renshai, he wished for life or, at least, a death in the heated glory of battle. For the women, children, and soldiers he wished long lives,
health, and happiness. Still, his decisions ached within him.

Sterrane pressed his back to the wall and sank to the floor, burying his face in his arm. Had he sent his men to Santagithi, so many more at home would have died. Surely, King Verrall of Pudar could have spared some troops, and his reasons for not aiding Santagithi’s people sounded like thinly-veiled prejudice. Sterrane knew that had probably worked for the best. Had Pudar sent men to Santagithi as they had to Béarn, the consumption might have taken down Santagithi’s soldiers and civilians as well.

A presence settled beside Sterrane, and a gentle hand smoothed his hair. “Here you are.” Sterrane recognized Arduwyn’s voice. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Why?” Sterrane’s arm muffled his question.

“Because you needed me.”

The king looked up into Arduwyn’s deep brown eye and smiled. Of all his people, the flame-haired archer knew him best.

Colbey lay in a quiet slumber that had grown too familiar to Mitrian in the last three days. She sat in vigil by his bedside, her back pressed to the wall and her thoughts distant. Her mind conjured images of the citadel on the hilltop that had once been her home, of the view from its crest that had made the town unfurl like a map below her. Years of memory traced the picture in vivid detail: the straight rows of cottages, the roads dotted with the men and women she had loved, and the yards filled with the white, bushlike forms of sheep. For so many years, the play screams of children had sounded through the streets; at one time, these had called her to her own games.