The Western Wizard (15 page)

Episte nodded, tears again welling in his eyes.

Colbey freed the boy’s blade, frowning at the tears though he did not chastise Episte for them. With time, Colbey hoped, Episte would find that crying gained him nothing, and the tears would disappear. He turned his attention to Rache.

The younger boy still stood exactly as Colbey had left him, in a defensive crouch with the sword raised above his head. His hands had blanched, his arms had gone rigid with strain, and sweat trickled from his brow.

Rache’s dedication surprised Colbey nearly as much as Episte’s natural skill, and he doubted most adults would have had the stamina to hold a raised sword so long. Wanting to keep the eagerness to please as natural as possible, Colbey kept his expression and tone neutral. “Rache, you’re done for the day.”

Rache sheathed his sword. He shook his arms against the ache of returning blood flow, but he did not complain.

Colbey motioned to Episte, waiting until the older boy started his practice before turning back to Rache. Then, tousling the sandy hair, Colbey steered Mitrian’s and Garn’s son from the clearing.

*  *  *

That night, Colbey hacked through a wild flurry of slash, thrust, and parry, his sword bounding and arching about the practice room near the southern corner of Santagithi’s estate. Once, this plain room and its blade-scarred walls had served as the gladiator training quarters. Here, Episte’s father had taught Rache’s father the tricks and skill that had kept him alive in the pit. Here, too, a hatred had grown between the two men, fueled by Garn’s savage temper and Rache’s unyielding need to make his charge into a survivor.

The windowless room was now an indoor practice area. Its only door, currently closed, led into a hallway that
ended in a door to the outside. Near this larger exit, a chamber filled with pegs and shelves held swords, shields, axes, maces, bows, and spears of sturdy design; these replaced the fighting gauntlets, wooden practice blades, and ancient, notched and battered swords that once served the fighting slaves. Outside, the cages that used to hold wary killers more like animals than men now contained only Santagithi’s dogs. Those gladiators too unstable to free had been presented to King Tenja of the Northern tribe of Vikerin to join his troupe. Santagithi had seen to it that, when Garn returned, he would find no sign of the life he had once been forced to lead.

Colbey’s blade moved in a silver blur, stopping only when he paused to assess a killing blow, and his thoughts moved with equal speed. As before, he dedicated his session to Sif, requesting the support that would reassure him that he had chosen his methods of instruction well. He had trained Renshai for fifty years, yet it never seemed to get easier. And, in the nearly two-decade gap since the Renshai had been all but annihilated, Colbey had trained no one but Mitrian and himself. He knew that the fine line between driving a swordsman to his best effort and discouraging him must not be broached, especially with the two boys who were nearly all that remained of the once great Renshai.

Colbey switched to techniques designed to use against mounted opponents, committed leaps and spinning back-kicks that violated the rules of keeping both feet on the ground for stability and ease of movement. Filled with prancing jumps and spirals, the Renshai maneuvers seemed more like dance than combat; but the punctuating sword jabs and sweeps added the deadliness stolen by the limitation to rapid changes of direction. His specialty, Colbey had created most of the Renshai’s horseback techniques, as well as those designed to meet mounted enemies when on foot.

A knock on the door disrupted Colbey’s practice. He landed in a defensive crouch, the single sword angled before him. Despite hours of continuous
svergelse
, his voice emerged barely winded. “Who is it?”

A female voice wafted from beyond the portal. “It’s Emerald.”

Episte’s mother.
Colbey sheathed the sword, surprised by the visit. Since he had begun his daily teaching sessions with Episte, she had only deigned to speak with him once. “Please. Come in.”

The door creaked open, and Emerald stepped into the training room. Her oval face supported plain features framed by dark hair. Her cheeks looked hollowed, as if she had once weighed much more than her slender figure indicated. She wore a blue dress belted at the waist; and, though thin, she sported none of a warrior woman’s firm musculature. Her brown eyes seemed soft, but her pursed lips and tenseness betrayed anger. And her tone matched her manner. “Episte says you hit him today.”

Colbey remained calm. “Hitting is not part of my teaching.”

Emerald hurled the door. It slammed closed with a bang that echoed through the room. “Are you calling my son a liar?”

“Did I say that?”

“Did you hit him?”

“No.”

Emerald glared. “You say you didn’t hit him. He says you did. So you
are
calling him a liar.”

The situation had come full circle. Colbey stared. “Did I say that?”

Emerald tossed up her hands in disgust. “You didn’t have to say it. Either you hit him or you didn’t. One of you is lying.”

“Or one of us misinterpreted what happened.” Colbey continued to study Emerald, wondering why she bothered him with trivial matters that did not concern her. He did not interfere with the foods she chose to offer Episte nor the way she tucked him into his bed at night. And she had no right to intrude on his training. “I knocked a sword from his hands. Perhaps the only word he could find for that in your language was ‘hit.’”

“Well, perhaps he could speak
my
language better if you didn’t confuse him with your foreign tongue.” Emerald’s volume rose to a shout. “And, by the way, it’s not
my
language, it’s the language of this town and this part of the world. What need does he have for a weird tongue spoken by a bunch of barbarians he’ll never meet?”

“It’s part of the training.” Colbey saw no reason to continue the conversation. He had a practice to finish, and this woman had passed beyond polite composure. “If you’ll excuse me.” He waved his fingers at the door.

Emerald ignored the hint. “And I suppose it’s also part of his training to teach him about pagan gods? I’ve spent too much time giving him a proper religious upbringing to let you ruin it with savage, tribal mythology.”

Colbey’s arms tensed, hovering near his sword hilts, and his blue-gray eyes went nearly as dark as Emerald’s own. He battered down fury, maintaining the perfect self-control and discipline derived from years of training.
To strike in anger means to strike without mastery.
“I think it would be best if you left now.”

“No,” Emerald said, though she did take several backward steps, nearly pressing her back to the door. “No! I’ve had enough! Episte is my son, not yours.”

“That’s true, though he means as much to me.”

“No! I love him. I’m his mother, by Suman. I love him in a way no one else but his father possibly could. And his father is dead.”

Colbey folded his arms across his chest. “Bloodline and love are unrelated. To love someone only because he shares your blood is as hollow and meaningless as loving someone only because he’s young and beautiful. To a Northman, an unrelated blood brother becomes more important than kin, since the bond is based on honor and merit, not inescapable coincidence.”

Colbey’s words inflamed Emerald. “Don’t preach at me! I’m not one of your students.
I am Episte’s mother.
I decide what Episte does or doesn’t do. And his time with you is finished.”

“What?” Colbey hoped he had misinterpreted her intentions.

“Perhaps
you’re
having trouble with the language?” Emerald’s tone became sarcastic. “Let me say it in words you can understand.” She adopted a parody of the melodious Northern accent, speaking the trading tongue with the loud, emphasized pronunciation she might use with the near-deaf. “You are no longer Episte’s teacher.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I not only mean it, I should have said it a long time ago.”

Colbey sighed, sizing the woman up from habit. “Then you leave me no choice but to kill you.” Despite his words, he made no motion toward his swords.

All color drained from Emerald, leaving her as pale as any Northman. “What?”

“I’m going to kill you now.”

Emerald shivered back against the door. “You can’t. . . . You wouldn’t. . . .”

Colbey continued to study Emerald calmly. “I can run you through in one stroke. I could decapitate you as quickly, if you prefer, but I see no reason for the dishonor. Or the mess.”

Emerald found her voice, though it emerged as a pinched whisper. “I’m a woman.”

“That means nothing.” Colbey remained in place, annoyed by Emerald’s change. Clearly, all of her shouting and threats had been false bravado and bluff, easily called. “Half of the finest warriors in my tribe were women.”

“But this isn’t your tribe.” Emerald crushed her spine against the door, cowering behind one raised arm. “I’m unarmed.”

“I have an extra sword.”

“I don’t know how to fight!” Hysteria flooded Emerald’s voice. She burst into tears, sliding to the floor. “Don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me.”

Colbey watched the groveling woman in silence, and her cowardice disgusted him.

“I didn’t mean it.” Emerald fixed glazed, pleading eyes on Colbey, cringing behind her hands. “You can train Episte. I won’t do anything about it. I won’t say anything about it again. I promise.”

“Stand up,” Colbey said.

“What?”

“Stand up,” Colbey repeated.

Reluctantly, Emerald obeyed, still hiding behind her arms.

“Is this what you want for your son?” Colbey pointed to the place on the floor where Emerald had cowered.

“I–I don’t understand,” Emerald said. When no further threats came from Colbey, physically or verbally, she seemed to relax a bit.

“Is that how you want your son to meet his enemies? They won’t show him the mercy I showed you. They’ll hack him to pieces and revel in the slaughter.”

“Enemies?” Emerald straightened as she realized Colbey had no intention of harming her. The first tinge of color returned to her features, though tears still rolled down her cheeks. “Episte is barely four years old! How many enemies could he have?”

“Hundreds.” Colbey remained unmoving. He hated the limitations placed on him and his charges by living among a culture that worshiped gods who allowed cowardice, that treated children like simpletons, and that allowed its women to grow soft and weak. “Whether you like it or not, the man you slept with was Renshai. And, whether I like it or not, most people find bloodline as important as you do. Just the fact that my people were Renshai was considered ample reason for the Northmen to murder them and the Westerners to rejoice in the killing. When his enemies come for Episte because he is Renshai, it will not be enough for him to know how to fight. He must know how to fight like a Renshai.”

“No one needs to know.” Emerald spoke cautiously, her tone pitched to placate.

Colbey frowned. “Several people know already. Secrets spread; they don’t die. It can only help Episte to be the best warrior possible. Why would you want anything less?” Colbey did not add that the Renshai needed Episte even more than he needed them. He doubted that saving the dwindling tribe would concern or interest Emerald.

“Because I don’t like your methods.” Emerald looked up quickly, apparently fearing for the consequences of her boldness.

Colbey gave a casual wave to indicate that she should speak freely.

“And I don’t like what you’re turning my child into.”

Colbey’s pale brows rose, smoothing his forehead. “I’m turning him into a competent swordsman.”

Emerald brushed strands of hair from her face with nervous strokes. “You’re turning him into a Renshai.”

“No.” Colbey’s features lapsed back to normal. “Episte is already Renshai. His father determined his bloodline, and you chose his father. I’m simply helping him become a
competent
Renshai.” It was an oversimplification. By Renshai law, sword skill, not blood, determined who became a member of the tribe. Yet, for purposes of solidarity and identification, the decision of who could learn the Renshai maneuvers was based on family. All full-blooded Renshai qualified for the privilege. Only the last Renshai could teach the maneuvers to outsiders, who then became full members of the tribe. From that time, all offspring of Renshai, no matter their blood, could learn the sword skills. “If it makes you feel better,” Colbey added, not really caring whether his words soothed, “I trained Episte’s father as a boy. You must have found something attractive about him that you chose to bear his child.”

Emerald took the words as a challenge. “I
loved
Rache,” she fairly hissed. “He was the most beautiful man I ever met.”

Colbey stared expectantly, certain Emerald did not love on this basis alone. Clearly, she had sought out the one quality for which Colbey could take no credit.

Emerald continued, though whether to prove her depth or from honesty, Colbey could not guess. “He was graceful and agile. Just watching him move was a pleasure. He was afraid of nothing, and he was always eager for battle. Without Rache’s teaching, Santagithi’s guards would be half as able and his gladiators would have died.” She sighed. “Rache’s coldness and mystery only made him more desirable.”

Colbey smiled, believing he had won the argument. Surely even a woman with no weapons training could understand that Rache’s early training had established his dexterity, courage, and his method of instruction.

Emerald fiddled with the door’s knob, glancing sidelong at Colbey to see if he would stop her.

Colbey remained still.

Emboldened, Emerald opened the door, but she remained in the room, facing Colbey. “And all of those qualities killed him: pride and skill and courage. Without
them, he would never have been crippled. He wouldn’t have charged into war with no concern for his own welfare. He would still be alive.”

“Dying young and with honor is part of being Renshai,” Colbey said. It was a fact, not an admission.

“And you wonder why I don’t want it for my son!”