The Western Wizard (65 page)

The gesture fell wide, but Colbey guessed that the knight intended to indicate Brignar’s white charger. Its neck arched daintily to a slim, triangular head. Its mane was braided with ribbons of blue and gold, and its pale eyes danced with a deviltry that matched Colbey’s own. A broad chest promised endurance, and its short back and powerful hindquarters would make it unmatched for jumps and quick starts. Colbey knew horses well, and the ones the knights rode could not be matched for conformation and training. Colbey disliked only their color. Chosen for beauty and to draw attention, they would not hide well in woodlands, and the sun might burn their delicate skin. Still, Colbey had an eye for horses bested only by his eye for swords. Since childhood, he had daily spent hours on horseback, creating the mounted Renshai maneuvers. He found it almost impossible to refuse a creature so handsome.

The wild look in the knight’s eyes completed the decision. To refuse such an honor would cause grave insult. “Thank you.” Colbey cleaned and sheathed his sword, then headed toward the king, the knight riding at his side.

Rache trotted to catch up, incredulous. “You’re going to join these enemies?” he whispered. “You’re going to swear fealty to the King of Erythane?”

“They’re not enemies, Rache.” Colbey replied at the same volume, continuing toward the clustered knights
and their king. “I see nothing wrong with choosing to ride a good war horse nor in swearing an alliance with a people who have been Renshai allies for the better part of a century. I’m going to vow to work in the best interests of the Westlands, and I’m already locked into that by a promise to Shadimar. If they try to keep me here or make me adhere to a rigid code that regulates means as well as ends, I’ll refuse. Remember, too, that ultimate authority of Erythane’s knights lies with Sterrane. Him, I trust.”

Colbey’s answer seemed to satisfy Rache. And Colbey came forward to accept his charge.

*  *  *

The twelve spires of the castle of Béarn stretched triangular heads toward the clouds. Three days after the joust in Erythane, Colbey led his companions along the irregularly-cobbled streets, looking as gaunt and as gray as the towers he approached, and far more grim. His albino stallion marched with a solemn grace, its mane the color of its master’s hair. Behind them plodded six mounted figures and a lightly-provisioned packhorse.

A half dozen Béarnian guards poked plumed heads and the points of crossbow bolts over the ramparts. Two men-at-arms stood behind the gates. “Who seeks entrance to Béarn’s castle?” one demanded coldly.

Colbey reined Frost Reaver up a hand’s breadth before the gate, surprised that Sterrane allowed such formality. He had nearly expected the childlike monarch to greet them at the gate. “One of the king’s knights and several of his friends. We want an audience with Sterrane.”

The bolts did not move. The same soldier spoke again. “Who are you?”

Colbey gathered breath to shout something sarcastic, but Mitrian cut in. “I’m Mitrian, Santagithi’s daughter, a close companion of your king. This is my family, my teacher, and the Eastern Wizard.” She indicated each in turn.

The sentries exchanged words briefly. Expecting them to be awed by, or at least civil to, the people who had restored Sterrane to his throne, Colbey was caught off-guard by the guard’s next question. “What are your intentions?”

“She told you we’re friends of Sterrane.” Colbey spoke each word slowly and distinctly, as if to an imbecile. “Do you think we mustered an army of seven to raze the castle?” As Colbey realized his words were less ridiculous than his tone suggested, amusement replaced ire. “I think you need one more bowman to fight a fair battle. You’re short one to have an arrow for each of us.”

A light pressure in Colbey’s mind claimed his attention. Instinctively, he forced the presence from his consciousness, but not before he identified source and motive. Shadimar had chosen this manner to silently protest Colbey’s sarcasm. Though gentle and brief, the contact suggested reason for the rigid protocol that bordered on hostility. Accustomed to dealing with pirates, disease, and Rathelon’s trickery, the guards had little patience for strangers. Curious about Shadimar’s communication, the Renshai returned a mental finger of energy, touching without reading. His probe met scorn, but no resistance. Apparently, Shadimar either did not notice his presence or chose to ignore it.

The soldier tossed his helmed head. “I’ll ask the king if he can see you.” He turned toward the castle. His boots clicked across the moat bridge.

Colbey dismounted, ignoring the sentries on the ramparts as he worked kinks from his legs. Secodon leapt from Shadimar’s mount and stood at Colbey’s side like a sentinel.

Shortly, the guard returned, mouth pinched in annoyance, though he spoke politely. “Please leave your horses here. They will be tended.” He addressed the man beside him, presumably making arrangements for the steeds, then again spoke to Colbey and his friends. “Come with me, please.” He worked open one of the gates. The crossbows withdrew. The speaker forced his lips into a crooked smile of welcome, though it seemed to pain him. “You may bring the wolf.” Stiffly, he turned, heading back toward the castle.

The guard led his charges through a courtyard of flower beds, around which men, women, and children sat in happy clusters. He ushered them across the moat to the iron doors of the castle. They swept through these and into the well-kept hallways that had scarcely changed in
the twelve years since Mitrian, Garn, and Shadimar had traipsed them. Although finery and wealth meant little to Colbey, who valued less tangible treasures like ferocity and skill, he instinctively memorized the corridors to the audience chamber.

The double doors opened abruptly, and a pair of guards led a merchant from the courtroom. The gruff swordsman who had met Colbey and his companions at the gate exchanged a few Béarnian words with his peers, then pointed at the yellow carpet that spanned the court. “Come with me.” He started down the walkway, the party at his heels.

Aside from the men-at-arms, who surrounded the armed party, the crowd in the main court seemed small. Apparently few took interest in the trivialities of the king’s affairs. Sterrane sat, bare-headed, on his throne at the end of the carpeting. Colbey studied the king, trying to read his silence. He looked thinner than Colbey remembered, and his face seemed less full. A line of wrinkles marred his cheeks, and crow’s-feet sat at the corners of his soft, dark eyes. Gray flecked his black hair and beard. “Greetings,” he said in perfect common. “I hope you fared well in your travels and that your business with Béarn is handled to your satisfaction.”

Mitrian went rigid, and her welcoming smile faded. Sterrane’s obviously-rehearsed, ceremonial hospitality caught Colbey by surprise, as did the king’s competence with the Western trading tongue.

Sterrane addressed a man at his right side, using the tongue of Béarn. Unfamiliar with the language, Colbey caught only the name, Mar Lon.

The bard glanced from Shadimar to Garn to Mitrian. Then, he examined the huge barbarian, the two young Renshai, and Colbey more carefully. He replied to the king.

Sterrane made a broad gesture toward the double doors, saying something with more authority than Colbey would have thought possible from the childlike man.

Garn whispered an explanation. “Sterrane’s just sent everyone but Mar Lon and Baran away.” He pointed out the bard and the captain of the guard. “Mar Lon likes
us, but I think he’s a bit nervous about you.” He tapped Colbey’s foot with his own.

Colbey did not miss a beat. “Can’t blame him. I know I’d worry about a little, old man when there’s a barbarian the size of a horse, a Wizard, and three young Renshai in the room.” The jest fell short in the wake of Sterrane’s unexpected stiltedness.

Mar Lon ushered guards and nobles from the courtroom.

Though he did not laugh, Garn did rise to the occasion. “Yeah, I guess he really shouldn’t worry about the helpless elderly demon prince.”

As the last of the courtiers exited, leaving only the king, their party, Mar Lon, and Baran, Mitrian knelt. Gradually, the others took her cue. Colbey felt like an idiot deferring to one he had so long seen as clownish simpleton, though he had recognized more in Sterrane than the others had.

Sterrane waved his guests to their feet immediately. He descended from his throne with Mar Lon and Baran hovering like anxious parents. Then, the stalwart monarch who had reclaimed the high kingdom of the Western world, who had ruled his country for twelve years, who had bested traitors and weathered two plagues, hurled himself into Mitrian’s arms and wept. And she cried with him.

After what seemed like an eternity, Sterrane pulled free. With excitement, his formal correctness degenerated back into his familiar, halting version of the Western trading tongue. “Me knew you live! Arduwyn owe two stories.”

Apparently, Sterrane’s initial clarity had come from tedious rehearsal of the same welcome, not from any new facility with language. It took volumes of self-control for Colbey to keep from laughing at the massive king who was still a child in many ways. “Ah! So the hunter lives, too. And he’s here. We have business with him.”

Mitrian gave Colbey a sharp glare, apparently for raising issues before finishing greetings.

Sterrane seemed nonplussed. “Baran, call feast. For guests, Arduwyn and family, and you two. No more.”

“Yes, sire,” Baran said, but he seemed reluctant to
move. He smiled nervously at Garn and glanced at the Eastern Wizard.

Shadimar must have given a reassuring motion, because the guard seemed to relax. He paused fleetingly to whisper something to Garn, then trotted out through the doors.

Years seemed to melt from Sterrane. His head bobbed with all the eagerness of his youth. “Good see.” He embraced Garn, then turned back to Mitrian. “Always happy see you.” He smiled at the Wizard. “Not always glad see you. Glad now.” He knelt, catching Secodon into a huge hug. The wolf licked enthusiastically at the king’s face. Sterrane laughed happily. Then, apparently realizing he had not finished his hellos, he turned to Colbey. At a loss for words, he greeted the old Renshai lamely. “You . . . here.”

“Yes,” Colbey gave the only logical answer, then added facetiously and with a flourish, “Colbey Calistinsson, Knight of Erythane, in your service, Sire.”

Mar Lon stared, obviously stunned. Whether his reaction came from Colbey’s title or the recognition of his name, the Renshai did not try to guess.

Deeper concern blunted Sterrane’s reaction to the news. “
My
service?” Tears still streamed from his eyes, but now his grin wilted. He looked impossibly grim, an adult expression on his huge-eyed face. “Me so sorry. So sorry. Me want help Santagithi—”

Colbey cut in, wanting to spare Sterrane, though he knew it was Mitrian’s position. “No need for apologies, Sterrane. Santagithi knew, without a moment’s questioning, that if you could have sent troops, you would have. He died in the last battle. A hero. He never doubted your intentions, and neither have we.”

Mitrian nodded vigorous agreement. “We love you, Sterrane. You know that. I only wish we could have helped you.”

Once again realizing he had not completed amenities, Sterrane pointed at Korgar, Tannin, and Rache. Apparently even more flustered, he did not mince words. “Who these?”

Garn chuckled, placing an arm across Rache’s broad
shoulders. “What’s the matter, Sterrane. You don’t recognize my baby?”

“Baby?” Sterrane studied Rache with astonishment. “Baby Rache? Have Garn eyes. Have Garn . . .” Apparently missing the word, he ran both hands from his own chest to past his sides to indicate musculature. He added good-naturedly, “Have nothing else Garn’s. Lucky. Pretty. Like mama.”

“Thank you,” Mitrian said.

“Yes. Thank you,” Garn said, feigning offense.

Determined to finally finish the introductions, Sterrane pointed at Tannin. “This
friend
Northman?”

“Tannin Randilsson,” the young man introduced himself. “I’m a Westlander; not a Northman, Sire.”

“What town?”

“No town, Sire,” Tannin admitted, growing uncomfortable. He glanced at Colbey.

There was no need to hide information from Sterrane. Colbey nodded his encouragement.

“I’m from the Fields of Wrath, Sire.”

“West Renshai.” Sterrane took Mitrian’s hand in one of his and Rache’s in the other.

Tannin’s pale eyes widened. “You know, Sire . . . but . . .”

“Me king, you know. Not stupid. Know all kingdom. You allies.” Sterrane turned his attention to Korgar.

The barbarian stared back, unblinking. He clutched his spear in one hand and rested his other palm on his “genuine Renshai sword.”

“Korgar,” Mitrian said. “He’s a barbarian. He only speaks a few words of our language.”

Garn could not resist adding, “Even worse than you.”

The ex-gladiator earned a stony glare from Shadimar.

A deep, metallic knock rang through the room, and the doors swung open. Arduwyn strode through, flanked by Bel and a young woman Colbey did not recognize. The slight, flame-haired archer seemed not to have changed, except that his eyepatch had been replaced by one of silk; but the years had placed their burden on Bel. Her dark hair was frosted gray, she had put on weight, and her withered breasts sagged.

Arduwyn ran to Mitrian and Garn, while Bel embraced
Rache, recognizing him without need for explanation. “Kinesthe. My little Kinesthe.”

Though her performance touched Colbey, the word “little” to describe Rache made him smile.

For his part, Rache seemed scarcely to notice Bel’s attention. He stared over her shoulder at the third member of the trio. Colbey could see that Tannin’s gaze had locked on the girl as well. She was tall and restrained, younger than either of the pair who studied her. Strawberry blonde hair fell to her waist. Long, dark lashes graced a small nose. From the look on the younger Renshai’s faces, Colbey guessed that they heard none of the introductions until Arduwyn coaxed the girl forward. “This is my daughter, Sylva.”

Colbey counted years, guessing this must be the baby in the womb when he and Santagithi had come to Pudar to pick up Rache.