The Western Wizard (14 page)

The Eastern Wizard removed his hands from the coals, silently deferring to Sterrane. He had nothing to fear from mortal weapons, nor could he take an active part in the conflict. The wolf looked from Wizard to heir to guards.

“Who are you?” the guard said again. He focused directly on Sterrane, apparently having assessed the unarmed, scrawny elder as the lesser threat. But his gaze did stray to the wolf.

“Me—” Sterrane started, but Shadimar cut him off.

“Use native,” he said softly, yet with authority. He modulated his voice perfectly to command without undermining.

Sterrane switched to Béarnese. In his youth, the Wizard had always encouraged him to use the trading tongue for the practice. For reasons he could not explain, Sterrane had a clumsiness for learning languages that did not seem to improve with time or exposure. “My name is Sterrane.”

Abruptly, Morhane’s bearded face appeared from behind the trees, his sudden lack of caution rattling the guards. He studied Sterrane in the gray haze of evening, surprise darkening his swarthy, bearded features. The royal crest swung from a chain around his neck, the rearing bear medallion resting in his speckled beard.

Sterrane recognized his uncle at once by his uncanny resemblance to Sterrane’s father and, more recently, to Sterrane himself. A mixed swirl of emotion assailed him: the crushing heaviness of grief, a hatred so pure it seemed to burn, and an unconditional love that honor decreed must come with shared blood. “You killed your brother, Morhane. My father. You murdered my brothers and sisters and Béarn’s most faithful guards.” Sterrane’s gentle
features twisted with anguish, and his eyes grew moist. But his tone betrayed nothing. “Why?”

The guards shifted restlessly, awaiting a command. One politely motioned Morhane back behind him, though the king ignored the gesture.

A noise above Morhane and his escort drew Sterrane’s attention. His gaze drifted to an ancient oak as Garn settled into the branches. He did not see Mitrian, and he guessed that her inexperience with scouting forced her to move intolerably slowly. Still, when he listened carefully, he thought he could discern the noises of distant motion.

Morhane and his guardsmen seemed to take no notice of the rustling leaves above them, apparently either attributing the sound to wind or distracted by the danger Sterrane posed to their king.

Morhane circled around his bodyguards and approached Sterrane with his empty hands displayed in a gesture of welcome. A huge, gilded ax lay strapped across his back, and a jewel-encrusted sword hilt jutted from a tooled, leather-wrapped scabbard at his waist. He made no move to draw either weapon. “Sterrane?” His voice went thick with guarded hope. “Nephew? Is that really you?”

The guardsmen’s shock reflected clearly on their faces. They strode hesitantly after their king, obviously wishing they could retake their positions in front of him, yet knowing better than to challenge his intentions.

Sterrane remained standing in place, unsure how to react. Of all the possibilities that had played through his mind, he had never expected a heartfelt greeting from Morhane. In response, he nodded. His own repertoire of thoughts and emotions did not include deceit, and, since childhood, he had known nothing but friends who coddled and protected his innocence like a toddler’s.

Morhane twisted his head to his escort. “Flent. Koska. Do you see? My nephew Sterrane is alive!”

Despite the sincerity in Morhane’s voice, the guards seemed uncertain whether to celebrate the circumstance or to remedy it. In the tree, Garn froze, watchful. Mitrian remained out of sight.

Still, despite his naïveté, Sterrane was not stupid.
Though he trusted his uncle’s candor, he had not received a satisfactory answer to his question. “Why?” he repeated. “Why did you kill my family?”

Morhane’s grin wilted, replaced by an expression of pained sorrow. “You think I killed your family?” Incredulity radiated from him. “My own brother? My nieces and nephews? No, it’s not true. I fought by their side against the invaders, and I worried when I found you missing. Who told you such a horrible lie?”

The Béarnian bodyguards exchanged glances, seeming as surprised as Sterrane by the king’s words and manner.

Sterrane glanced toward Shadimar, both in answer and to solicit advice. As his attention shifted, he caught a glimpse of Mitrian moving up behind Koska. Garn remained in the tree, no longer above Morhane, though a leap could still carry him to either of the guardsmen.

Morhane followed Sterrane’s dark gaze with his own, locking on Shadimar. “Old man, you told Sterrane that I killed our family?”

Addressed directly, Shadimar rose, unfolding his long, lean frame. The wolf remained, quiet but alert, at his feet. “I saw no reason to keep the truth from him.”

Morhane’s eyes went as flat and dull as the spent coals. “How dare you make such an accusation. How could you claim to know? You weren’t there.”

“When the mouse is missing and the snake has a bulge in its belly, I do not need to see the consuming.”

Sterrane thought he heard a horse whinny. He dismissed the sound as a phantom creation of his own discomfort. His nerves had gone taut as bowstrings.

Apparently also cued by a noise, Koska whirled to face Mitrian. He crouched, eyes flicking from her obviously feminine features to the incongruity of her readied stance and the sword at her hip. Flent turned, too, placing his person between Morhane and this new threat. “Caution, Highness. He has allies.”

“Ah.” Morhane ignored his guards, still studying Shadimar, and his eyes flashed with an emotion Sterrane could not place. “So you admit your evidence is circumstantial. And you would condemn a man and destroy a family bond based on empty guesses?” Passing off the Wizard as beneath his dignity, Morhane turned back to
Sterrane. “I have nothing to fear from my nephew, and he has nothing to fear from me.” Despite his reassurances, Morhane glanced briefly at Mitrian before returning his attention to Sterrane. He wore a broad smile, and the light in his eyes became an excited twinkle. “I can’t believe you’re alive. All these years lost, and now we’re together again.” He lowered his head. “Of course, these are yours.” He seized the medallion by its chain, levering the Béarnian crest over his shaggy head. He handed it to Sterrane along with the signet. “Your Majesty.”

Sterrane could hear other things now, leaves jostling, heavy footfalls against dirt, a mass of movement headed toward the clearing. A horse snorted, the sound explosive in the sudden hush. Shocked and deeply moved by Morhane’s graciousness, Sterrane paid these others no more heed than his uncle did. Words failed him. His fingers closed over metal warmed by Morhane’s body, and he met his uncle’s flinty gaze. All his doubts fled. He did not see Shadimar’s agonized frown, the strained glances passed between Garn and Mitrian, or the vigorous shaking of the woman’s head. Nor did he notice that Morhane’s guards had relaxed slightly as a semicircle of mounted men partially surrounded the campsite behind Mitrian. Sterrane flung his arms around Morhane’s massive waist, feeling the king’s strong arms encircle him as well.

A touch of air on his back was Sterrane’s only warning. He tensed as a razor-sharp stiletto gouged through the muscle of his lower back. Though slight, his movement saved his spine. Instinctively, he staggered aside. Flesh sliced open, lancing agony through him. Then Morhane leapt back, clutching a knife smeared with Sterrane’s blood, his brown eyes now rabid with rage.

The horsemen held their ranks. Flent froze. Koska sprang to assist his king, and was instantly cut off by Mitrian. Garn jumped from the tree, committed to his attack. But, still dizzy from his head wound and unused to striking from above, he miscalculated. The side of his sword caught the guard a glancing blow. Garn overbalanced, collapsing into an uncontrolled roll. The guard stumbled to one knee. Garn plowed into Mitrian.

The wound in Sterrane’s back ached, but the realization
of his uncle’s treachery hurt worse. He dropped the crest and signet, catching the haft of his ax, and he launched a powerful upstroke for Morhane’s face. Morhane back-stepped, freeing his own ax. His riposte slammed onto Sterrane’s blade, meeting resistance solid as a mountain. Sterrane bore in, driving the older man back a step.

A stranger’s voice cut through the din. “Flent! Koska, be still! It’s not your fight.”

“Majesty!” Pain filled Koska’s cry. Ignoring the command, he lurched for the king and heir while Garn and Mitrian untangled themselves. Accustomed to quick and dirty fighting, Garn made a desperate grab, catching the guard’s ankle. He pulled, sending the bodyguard crashing to the ground, then leapt bodily upon him.

The realization of betrayal turned to cold anger. Abruptly, Sterrane tugged his ax loose. Unexpectedly freed from opposing pressure, Morhane pitched forward, baring his head to Sterrane’s next strike. Sterrane hesitated, momentarily undecided as he whipped his blade into position. He knew what had to be done. And, once he admitted it, he did not falter. An expression of terror crossed Morhane’s features. Then Sterrane’s blade cleaved his uncle’s neck. Morhane’s dark eyes glazed, and he collapsed to the dirt beside Béarn’s royal crest.

Koska squirmed, twisting to reverse Garn’s hold. His gaze found the king, and he went still. “Gods!” He made a gesture of surrender.

Only then did Sterrane register the presence of strangers at the clearing’s entrance. Six white horses fanned into a perfect semicircle, their manes braided and wound through with the gold and blue ribbons that identified them as the steeds of Erythanian knights. Their riders sat, rigidly attentive. They clutched pikes in a rest position, helmets covered their heads, and their swords remained sheathed. Each of their tabards displayed the Béarnian symbol. In the center of their arc, a stomping bay mare and a chestnut gelding completed the formation. The men perched on these horses were large-boned, one black-haired and the other white-haired, clearly Béarnides. The younger wore the colors of Béarn’s royal guard and a blue plume of office; clearly he was the one
who had commanded Flent and Koska from the battle. At his side, the richly dressed elder carried no weapon. Surely sent by Mar Lon, these men were no threat to Sterrane, nor would he have cared if they were. Grief stole all concern for his safety.

Sterrane’s ax fell from his fingers. His eyes went as vacant as his uncle’s, with no sparkle of triumph. No wicked grin of vengeance crossed his face. The pain in his back seemed unimportant, and he scarcely felt the steady trickle of blood along his spine. He sank down on the nearby stump, his back to his companions and the Knights of Erythane. His shoulders shook rhythmically as he cried.

*  *  *

Sunlight angled through the tallest branches of the pine and elm forest near the Town of Santagithi, lighting the teaching clearing. Colbey steadied Rache, readjusting his grip on a sword that, though crafted short and light for a child, still maintained perfect, proportional balance. Two years old, Rache understood little of Colbey’s teachings; but he seemed to have an intuitive grasp of their importance. His pudgy hands clutched the hilt, fingers remaining where Colbey had placed them. Beneath a mop of sandy hair, eyes as green as his father’s fixed on his teacher, desperately seeking approval.

“That’s the way, Rache.” Familiar with a child’s short attention span, Colbey gave praise freely. Over time, that honor would become increasingly more difficult to earn. Seizing Rache’s arms, he raised the child’s sword above his head. The movement gained him a glimpse of his other student. Four-year-old Episte knelt before a meandering line of wild flowers, his sword dangling from his hand.

Rage suffused Colbey. Forgetting Rache, he cleared the distance to Episte in a single bound. Drawing his sword as he moved, he hammered the blade up against Episte’s crossguard. The underhand stroke slapped the sword from the child’s grip, sending it spinning into the air.

Episte gasped, whirling to meet the attack. He clamped his aching sword hand to his chest, yet still managed to
catch the hilt in his left hand before the blade struck the ground.

Pleased with Episte’s honoring his sword and by the boy’s agility, Colbey found it difficult to scold. Yet, disrespect for a sword master was a crime that could not go unpunished. “Didn’t I tell you to practice
odelhurtig?
”

Episte nodded, moisture welling in his eyes. Still clutching the sword, he rubbed his right hand with the knuckles of his left.

“And what were you doing?”

“Picking flowers for Mama,
torke.
” A tear rolled down Episte’s face. Though only half Renshai, he had inherited the racial feature that made him look younger than his age. Already, Rache was the larger of the two. Episte had also acquired his father’s golden hair and blue eyes, though his skin bore the darker, rosier hue of the Westerners. Still holding his sword, Episte crouched, scooping up a handful of purple blossoms. “These would look pretty in her hair.”

Colbey stared, with a look of withering disdain. “Is this how you would meet an enemy? With a bouquet and a dragging sword?”

The flowers fell from Episte’s fingers, gliding to the dirt. “No,
torke.
I—”

“You are always a warrior first, Episte. You are Renshai.”

“I wasn’t going to . . . I wouldn’t. . . .”

Wanting no excuses, Colbey made a sudden lunge with his sword for Episte’s abdomen. Episte tensed, whipping his smaller weapon to block. Steel rang against steel. Colbey threw only enough power into the blow to hone Episte without hurting him. Episte riposted with a flawless
odelhurtig.

“Good.” Colbey redirected the strike with an easy, snaking parry, glad for the opportunity to temper anger with praise. He feigned another jab, at the last moment turning it into a high cut that swept harmlessly over Episte’s head.

An instant later, Episte ducked to avoid a blow that, if real, would already have landed.

“A little too slow.” Colbey circled his sword back into a reverse cut, trapping Episte’s blade against his own
knee. “Now, I’m going to take Rache home. I want you to stay here and practice
odelhurtig.
I’m going to return quietly and unseen. If I find you doing anything but training, you’re not going home. You’re going to work all night, and I’m going to sit here and see that you do. Understand?”