The Western Wizard (12 page)

Rubbing at his arms, Garn turned back to face Mar Lon. The bard stared at the ceiling as if expecting divine retribution, if not for his claim of harboring chaos, then for violating the restriction against the bard teaching in any way but song.

There was nothing subtle about Mar Lon’s proclamation, yet still Garn hesitated.

Mar Lon’s gaze flitted to Garn, awaiting some response he did not get. He pulled Garn’s knife from his pocket and offered the hilt.

Shocked, Garn took the dagger, no longer able to really doubt Mar Lon’s good intentions. “What makes you think I have some connection to Valar’s heir?”

Mar Lon flashed a weary smile, the expression making him appear ten years older. “You didn’t harm any of the palace guards. I checked. To avoid all of them, you have to be the quietest sneak thief in the kingdom. Or else you came through the tunnel.”

Garn fingered his dagger, confused. He could not help wondering why, if Morhane’s men knew about the secret entrance, they did not keep it guarded.

That thought was answered by the rest of Mar Lon’s words. He broke into song, his voice beginning as a mellow tenor, then crossing three octaves without a break or quaver:

Mar Lon finished, lapsing back into his normal speaking voice. “Sorry about the rhyme scheme, but I improvised. Obviously, there’s not a standing song about such a thing.”

Garn did not know whether to laugh or back carefully away. “Do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Just start singing for no good reason. It’s like having a conversation with a bird.”

Mar Lon shrugged. “It goes with the title, I’m afraid. Odin’s curse. If I say too much in normal words, I risk the wrath of gods.”

Garn questioned the guard’s sanity. He had seen some strange rituals in the name of religion, but this went beyond Colbey’s battle cries, the ululating chants of Santagithi’s people beseeching the faceless god of winter to allow spring to come, or the unison storytelling of the idol-worshiping cult at Corpa Leukenya. “I see,” Garn said, though he did not.

“It only becomes a problem when I have to teach.” Wisely, Mar Lon dropped the conversation. “Forget about that for the moment. All I’m trying to say is that, besides me, the only people who could know about that tunnel are a Cardinal Wizard and Valar’s heir. If either
of them sent you, I have to support you. Perhaps I’m misinterpreting my position, but I have to believe my loyalties lie with Valar’s heir and not with Valar’s brother.”

Garn could not wholly drop his skepticism, even with his muddled sensorium. “If you don’t like Morhane, why do you serve him? And, if you’re so willing to turn against him, why does he trust you?”

“Garn, neither of us has time for a seventy verse aria. The simplest way I can think to say it: When the father of all gods tells you that your line must faithfully serve the king, you do it to the best of your abilities, no matter how repulsive that king might seem. Until now, I had no choice of king but Morhane. Your presence suggests otherwise. My loyalty to Valar’s heir cannot and will not falter so long as he lives.” He turned a hopeful look on Garn. Having told all, he could not afford to have made a mistake. “As to Morhane, he knows Odin’s curse on the bards as well; always my ancestors have served the ruling king. But he doesn’t know about the tunnel. Nor that I would place the true heir’s needs over his. He has every reason to trust me implicitly.”

Garn mulled the information, understanding the importance of time. To deny the existence of gods meant rejecting all of the supernatural phenomena that accompanied faith. Though Shadimar bore the title Eastern Wizard, Garn had seen nothing to prove Shadimar was anything more than a learned old man who tended to talk with a confusing and cryptic subtlety that annoyed Garn. Shadimar’s claim that Odin’s laws bound him too tightly to squander magic seemed more like an excuse. Still, it did not matter if Garn believed in gods, Wizards, or bards and their vows. If Mar Lon and Morhane believed the bodyguard had a divine bond to the king of Béarn, the truth did not matter.

Mar Lon fidgeted. “You did use the tunnel?”

“Yes.” Garn chose to put Mar Lon at ease by proving his knowledge. “From the ash tree to Miyaga’s room.”

Mar Lon smiled. Tension seemed to flow from his limbs, and it made him look boneless in comparison to his previous alertness. He leaned forward conspiratorially. “We’re in the deepest part of the dungeon now. The
exit leads just outside the wall.” He amended, “The new wall. The way the escape tunnel once did. That way, if a dangerous enemy ever escaped, he wouldn’t get loose on the castle grounds. Be careful. You’ll still have to get past the guard on watch, and there’s always a good one selected for that sector. I’ll tell the king not to say anything about your break-in because I think you must have had help from within the guard force and I don’t want the traitor to know of our suspicions until we catch him. Morhane will believe that.”

Mar Lon began to pace, scratching at the stubble on his chin. “Later, I’ll tell him that things have gotten too dangerous. I’m not sure who to trust, and I need to secrete him from the castle with one or two of his most faithful while I work on the problem.” He stopped short, directly before Garn. “I can’t go myself. Directly leading the king into a trap would violate my vows for sure, and I think I can help your cause more here at the castle. I’ll have these others slip him from the castle tonight. Where do you want them to take him?”

Again, Garn hesitated at the thought of revealing his friends’ location to Morhane’s bodyguard. Then, darkness hovered, and he feared for his consciousness. He desperately needed sleep, an escape from the throbbing and some quiet stillness for his body to heal the damage. Having chosen to trust Mar Lon, he had little choice but to place as much responsibility as possible into the other’s hands. “Lead him to the woods on the northern border of town. Continue as if on the second street to the east of the main road. Take him to the first clearing.” Garn chose a random location a short distance from Sterrane’s current camp. “We’ll find him.”

Mar Lon resumed pacing. “Please, try not to hurt whoever I send with Morhane. I’ll try to pick guards likely to shift their loyalties to Valar’s heir without arousing Morhane’s suspicions, but he may insist on those he trusts most. Here, at the castle, I believe your worst threat will be Morhane’s captain, Rathelon. He’s the king’s illegitimate son and every bit as evil as his father. Under ordinary circumstances, he’d become regent until Miyaga grew old enough to take the throne.” He stopped before Garn again. “The less blood shed, the better. I know
how to fight. It’s part of my training. But my cause is, and always has been, peace. I’ve never killed a man. I would do so in the cause of my king.” He smiled, looking at Garn. “My
real
king.” He savored the words, then shifted back to his more sobering point. “But I’d rather not be placed in a position where I have to.” Moving to the door, he opened it a crack and peeked through it. A moment later, he opened it fully, exited, and motioned for Garn to follow.

Garn rose, still clutching the knife, and slipped through the door after Mar Lon. Light from the room diffused into a black hallway, revealing unadorned stone walls. Reluctant to stumble through darkness, Garn addressed the bard. “Should I take the torch?”

“It’s probably safer in the dark.”

Garn did not agree, but he trusted his instincts and hearing. So long as he followed in Mar Lon’s footsteps, he doubted he would fall prey to a trick, trap, or ambush.

“It’s a dismal maze from here, completely empty of implements for light or marking. If you don’t know your way, you might never get out. Stay close.”

Garn had no intention of doing otherwise. He followed the light, steady scuff of Mar Lon’s boots against granite through a series of winds and turns, trying to concentrate on the specifics of the route, though with little success. His bruised mind seemed incapable of clinging to details. Breezes and occasional touches to the walls revealed cross corridors that Mar Lon avoided.

Either because he needed to concentrate himself or to avoid distracting Garn, Mar Lon did not speak until he came to a sudden stop in the middle of a hallway. “There.” Taking Garn’s hand, he raised it to the ceiling, guiding his fingers to the outline of an ironbound trapdoor. Mar Lon released Garn. Keys clinked, followed by the snap of an opening lock. “I’m going to need some help. It’s heavy.”

Garn placed his hands on the hatch near Mar Lon’s.

“Ready. Push.”

Garn strained, hearing the rush of air as Mar Lon assisted. The panel shifted.

“Careful,” Mar Lon hissed, stepping aside. Rubble funneled through the opening, moist soil mixed with
weeds and small stones. First light filtered through behind the avalanche, dim yet blinding after the total darkness of the labyrinth. Dawn wove pink between layers of pale blue clouds, igniting chips of pyrite in the Béarnian roadway. Garn could see the castle wall to his left. On the far side of a cleared area with only a few trees, a scraggly, mountain forest stretched into the distance. To his right lay the gray blocks of Béarn’s city. “Go,” Mar Lon said. “Quickly and carefully. Good luck.”

Garn scampered through the hole. The instant he stood on high ground, the panel winched closed, disappearing into the granite of the roadway. Again, Garn marveled at the intricacies of Béarnian masonry. Excitement thrilled through him. After so many near mistakes, he had set the stage for a coup more thoroughly than Shadimar had any right to hope.
Morhane delivered to us. An ally in the castle.
It seemed too right to be real, and that concerned Garn. His intuition told him to trust Mar Lon. But though those same instincts had saved him from maiming or death in the gladiator pit, they had not served him so faithfully when it came to judging people and their intentions. His upbringing gave him little basis for understanding deceit.

I need to get back to the others as quickly as possible. Let
them
judge Mar Lon’s words.
Garn gave the territory around him only a cursory glance, crouching and waiting behind a tended hedge. Time trickled past, during which Garn let his mind lapse into the void it sought. Finally, just when he feared he might have dozed off and missed the sentry’s passage, footsteps crunched over the rocky roadway. Garn saw flashes of blue between the branches, the movement of a guard wearing Béarn’s colors. The man marched by without pausing. Clearly, he had not seen Garn’s still form, and his assigned route would now take him into the thickest quarter of the royal city.

Garn followed the sounds of the sentry’s movements until they faded. He knew he should remain still, seeking others, tracking every noise. But, muddled by his head wound and believing himself safe now, he chose speed over caution and made a dash for the woodlands.

Trees whirled past, and the town of Béarn became a blur of dark and light patches in the dawn light. As Garn
whisked past a twisted copse of vines, he saw sudden movement. A stranger’s voice broke the early morning hush, speaking Béarnese in deep, strident bellows. “Hey! Hey, you there! Stop!” Footfalls chased him.

Garn lowered his head and ran on. The other lunged toward him, quick despite his tremendous size. He jabbed a spear haft at Garn’s feet.

Garn swerved, but not far enough. Wood crashed against his ankle, sparking pain. A sweep of the pole stole his balance. He teetered momentarily, then fell, rolling from habit. Pain slammed his head, masking his lesser pains. He had just worked his way to a crouch when he found himself staring at the business end of the spear. The guard held the weapon just far enough above him to gather the momentum he would need to kill Garn, yet just close enough to strike before he could move. Certain he faced a trained warrior, Garn froze.
Mar Lon told me only one guard would be here.
Though he felt misled, Garn doubted Mar Lon had done so on purpose. He let the deeper portions of his mind worry the inconsistency while he struggled to focus more intense concentration on the threat.

The spearman towered over Garn, large even for a Béarnide. Muscle packed his tall, huge-boned frame. Black hair and a beard framed a meaty face with small, deep-set eyes. He wore the chain mail, tunic, and tabard of Béarn’s on-duty guards and the plumed cap of an officer. A sword hung in a scabbard at his hip. “Who are you?”

Garn saw no reason to withhold the information; this man would have no cause to know his name. “Garn.”
A commander. Why would a commander be here?
Garn drew upon his own brief experiences as a Pudarian town guard.

“Where were you going?”

Cautiously, Garn raised a hand, pointing toward the woodlands. The fall had dizzied him again, and he did not yet trust himself to speak.

The officer watched Garn’s hand rather than the direction indicated by the gesture. “Where did you come from?”

Garn shifted his arm, now pointing toward the town.

The guardsman frowned. He had received fair answers to his questions, yet they told him nothing. “Why were you running?”

Dazed and inexperienced with alibis, Garn found no clever responses. Believing any answer less incriminating than hesitation or silence, he spoke the first words that came to his mind, using the trading tongue. “I was told running makes a man healthier.”