The Western Wizard (18 page)

In the courtyard beyond the gates, Rathelon was poised before a small army dressed in Béarn’s blue. Sunlight flashed from his helmet, and his black eyes seemed to burn as brightly. The blue plume of office waved in a mild breeze. “What is this?” he demanded as Sterrane and the others approached.

Sterrane cleared his throat, speaking in crisp Béarnese. “I’m Sterrane, Valar’s son, and rightful king of Béarn.” Sweat trickled from his brow, and Garn’s anger receded slightly. Usually, words of any kind came only with difficulty to his childlike friend. Despite his bold oratory before Béarn’s citizenry, Sterrane still despised confrontation.

The crowd shouted unintelligible support. The knights formed a semicircle behind Sterrane and his entourage. Garn kept his gaze locked on the captain.

Rathelon glowered. His men remained still. “We have a king, and we’re faithful to him. Go away!”

“Morhane is dead!” Baran shouted from Sterrane’s side. He said something to the heir that Garn could not hear. “All these and the master mason stand in witness.” He made a sweeping gesture to include the knights and all of the people enclosed by their formation. Nifthelan had left the entourage to stand among the craftsmen.

Sterrane drew the royal crest from beneath his shirt and ducked through the chain. He raised the medallion, letting the links dangle from his fist.

Rathelon’s gaze found Baran, and he squinted in rage. “If the king is dead, then Miyaga is queen. Long live the queen! And as her regent, I demand that you surrender the crest and signet.”

Baran shouted back. “Valar’s line, not Morhane’s, has birthright to the throne.”

Rathelon did not give the claim a moment’s consideration. “The law states that in the event of the king’s demise, right of ascension goes first to his queen, then to his legitimate offspring in order of age, then to his grandchildren, beginning with the offspring of the king’s oldest child.” Rathelon kept his voice in monotone to indicate a direct quotation of the law. “It goes on from there, but there’s no need in this case. By right, the throne belongs to Miyaga. And King Morhane, may he sleep in Dakoi’s loving arms, designated me as regent.”

The crowd dropped to tense whispers. Baran went rigid. His uncertainty bristled warning through Garn. Clearly, Baran had not considered semantics. Legend and loyalty had blinded him to detail. “But Valar’s line is the true king’s line.”

Rathelon grinned, now fully in control. “The law implies otherwise.”

Apparently knowing Rathelon was wrong, in theory if not by the specific wording of the law, Baran rolled a desperate gaze to Shadimar. Clearly, he hoped the Wizard would have the eloquence and knowledge to make the point the lieutenant could not. Though every eye had shifted to Baran, awaiting the reply that would turn the tables on Rathelon, it was Mitrian who answered Rathelon’s challenge. She gestured one of the Erythanian knights forward.

The knight first looked to Baran, who nodded his approval. The white charger threaded calmly to Mitrian’s side. Garn folded his arms across his chest, tired, aching, and irritable; but still curious about his consort’s approach. Apparently, her years as a strategist’s daughter had not wholly gone to waste.

“I’m a stranger to Béarn,” Mitrian started. Although she did not shout like the others, interest and need held the citizens quiet. Her steady voice thundered over the whispers. “I don’t expect you to listen to me. But will everyone here trust the words of this man?” She indicated the Erythanian knight.

Heads bobbed along the line of peasants, and many of the guards added their agreement. Garn eyed the guards, trying to sort Rathelon’s followers from those more likely to join Sterrane, with little success. He could measure bulk and potential weapon skill, but not intention.

The knight removed his helmet, spilling straight brown hair to his shoulders. His dark eyes sought and held Mitrian’s. He kept his shoulders back and his head high. Above all else, he would not betray his honor.

Mitrian eased into the questioning. “Your name?”

The knight responded from long rote. “Sir Kakkanoch Larrinsson, Knight of the Erythanian and Béarnian kings: King Orlis and his majesty—” He broke off there, suddenly recognizing his quandary. He grinned sheepishly, obviously with more humility than most of his fellows. “I guess we’re here to decide that.”

Twitters ruffled the crowd. The other knights frowned.

Bothered by the distraction, Garn crouched.

Mitrian continued her questioning. “Sir Kakkanoch, if a living king specifies an heir other than the one who fulfills the standing law, who would become his successor?”

Kakkanoch considered briefly. Then a smile touched his lips as he recognized the purpose of Mitrian’s tactic. He kept his answer straightforward. “So long as the king designated his successor freely and without duress, his word would overrule the law.”

Rathelon remained still, glaring at Garn. Surely, he could not believe that Morhane would have given away
Miyaga’s right to the throne, yet Mitrian’s calm presentation had to whittle away at his confidence.

Mitrian elicited the coup de grace. “Did you hear Morhane do this?”

Kakkanoch gave the question a moment’s consideration, apparently needing to get the facts right. “King Morhane acknowledged Sterrane as his nephew. Following that identification, he said ‘Of course, these are yours.’ At that time, he gave Sterrane the symbols of his office: the royal crest and the king’s signet.”

Rathelon went still as a statue. Then rage shivered through him, and he hollered in defense, “Of course his majesty gave over his badges of office to assassins who cornered him. Who among us wouldn’t have done the same?”

It was a rhetorical question, yet Garn wished he could have answered. Even he would sacrifice his life before handing power and the lives of his subjects to an enemy.

Mitrian had an answer for Rathelon’s charge. “Sir Kakkanoch, in your opinion, did King Morhane face any threat when he gave his throne to Sterrane?”

The silence intensified until Garn could hear his own heartbeat. It seemed impossible for such a huge crowd to fall into a hush that deep.

The Erythanian knight spoke cleanly, his voice plainly audible over the silence. “No weapons had been bared and no threats exchanged. The king had declared, ‘I have nothing to fear from my nephew, and he has nothing to fear from me.’ In my opinion, King Morhane passed his title to his nephew, Sterrane, Valar’s son, of his own free will.”

The crowd erupted into a frenzied cacophony.

“Lies!” Rathelon shouted. “All lies! My father would never steal the birthright from his own.”

Even Garn could see the error in this argument. Fired to recklessness by his own impatience, he shouted. “Morhane murdered his own brother for a title. Did you think he would hesitate to betray you and Miyaga as quickly?”

For the first time, Rathelon’s attention snapped to Garn, and his brows beetled so low that his eyes all but disappeared. “You! I knew you were causing trouble. I
should have killed you when I had you groveling at my mercy.”

Mitrian headed toward Garn, intending to calm him before his mouth caused more trouble than it had already. But Garn had heard enough. His wounds throbbed, his head had started to pound again, and he had tired of fools’ games. “Open the damned gates, Rathelon, unless you’re too much of a coward to face my sword.”

Rathelon howled a command. One of the guards before the gate released his dogs, and the beasts leapt at the crowd.

Screaming, the villagers broke and fled. One dog sped for Garn. He dropped to one knee, drawing and slashing in the same motion. His sword opened its belly, and the beast collapsed in a scarlet pool. Secodon sped from Shadimar’s side to hold two dogs at bay. A fourth writhed in Sterrane’s beefy fist by the loose folds at the back of its neck. The last sprang forward, impaling itself on Baran’s blade.

Rathelon’s hands knotted into fists. He shouted again, pointing angrily at Garn and his companions. At his gesture, the other guards released their dogs.

Ten mongrels charged Béarn’s heir and his entourage. Garn bit his lip and tensed to meet the assault, his arm still burning from the previous bite.

Shadimar lowered his head, muttering something Garn did not try to understand.

“Back! DondRondBiffBorkBouncerBonnieKrimKramLosMorst! Heee-al!” Despite the length of the list, the names slid gracefully from the speaker’s tongue, and the tone still managed to retain enough authority to stop the dogs in their tracks, perhaps with Shadimar’s aid. Whoever had spoken was a master with words and voice, and Garn guessed the identity of the newcomer at once.

Mar Lon.
As the hounds fell back, Garn jerked his head toward the man on the wall who had given the command. Mar Lon still wore his uniform and plume of office, and his sword dangled from his hip, sheathed. He carried a tear-shaped, ten-stringed instrument with a long neck, strapped across his chest.

Finally.
Relief dulled the edges of Garn’s rage, but not for long.
What in hell took him so long?
He had forgotten
the patient timing that Mar Lon had used to his advantage in Morhane’s bedroom.

Rathelon looked shocked. As the dogs cowered at the sentries’ feet, their captain reddened.

Mar Lon rested a hand on his musical instrument, well away from his sword. “This is the man who should have been king.” He indicated Sterrane. “He deserves to take back his throne without bloodshed.”

Shadimar grinned. “Mar Lon, I presume?” He did not await confirmation. “I had expected Davrin. Last I heard, you were an infant.”

Mar Lon took the insult in stride, though the Wizard’s casual attitude cheapened his entrance. “How easily immortals lose track of time. My father is dead. An ‘accident’ that conveniently occurred right after he suggested that Béarn help the cities of its own kingdom in the Great War.”

The Knights of Erythane exchanged glances over this revelation. It was the first time Garn had seen them react to anything other than a direct command.

Mar Lon bowed. “And you, of course, must be Tokar.” He used the Western Wizard’s name.

Shadimar winced. Before he could correct the misconception, Rathelon bellowed.

“Mar Lon, damn you, traitor! I delegate command!”

The bard laughed. “You may still lead the men, Rathelon. But obviously the dogs obey me.”

Garn did not understand Rathelon’s next harsh words, but the townsfolk recoiled in fear. And Garn had no trouble translating the command that followed. “Kill them!”

The archers on the walls nocked arrows. The swordsmen pressed forward, and two soldiers among Rathelon’s ranks worked to open the gates. Shadimar raised his arm, though Garn knew the Wizard could not harm mortals. Mitrian’s sword rasped from its sheath.

Garn strode forward, coming so close to the gate that the archers could only shoot him if they leaned over the ramparts. “So my impression was correct, Rathelon, you coward. Send your men to fight your battles now that your mother’s too old!”

Rathelon howled wordlessly. Muddled by this unrecognizable command, the guards hesitated. Many turned
their heads, awaiting a definite order from their captain, unwilling to fire upon a crowd until directly instructed to do so. Others shifted nervously, their loyalties torn. To pledge service to the losing faction, whichever that might turn out to be, meant certain condemnation: imprisonment, banishment, or death.

Garn stared into Rathelon’s rabid eyes, seeing the same uncontrollable rage he had fought so hard to overcome in himself. He forced away a smile. Anger would make Rathelon careless.

On the ramparts, Mar Lon tuned each string of his instrument individually, not needing to compare their pitches. He seemed to take no notice of the threat beneath him. Shadimar lowered his head, his voice emerging as a dull, senseless rumble. He raised both arms, as if to indicate Mar Lon, but his gaze did not follow his own motion. He still studied the ground.

Mar Lon’s unpolished poetry in the dungeon maze did not prepare Garn for the perfection of his talent. The first few notes that blossomed from the
lonriset
drew the anger out of Garn, their pitch flowing about him in a golden wave of sound. Then Mar Lon sang, his voice as deep and resonant as eternity. His verses wove a story more intricate than any tapestry, conjuring images of silver-colored cliffs carved to a castle’s spires and a hero king of the mountain, named Valar. Mar Lon’s description of the king made Garn swell with a power that seemed real and personal.

Even as the description left the bard’s lips, the clouds pinwheeled, as if sucked into a central vortex, then stretched into streamers above his head. Sunlight spilled through the opening, and the sky turned as blue as the ocean’s depths.

Crowd and guards alike gasped in wonder.

A moment later, the wispy tendrils reshaped, taking the form and figure of a thickly-muscled and heavily-bellied man. Features swirled into place: piercing eyes, rugged brows and forehead, and a solid chin. It could have passed for Sterrane, though silver streaks of cloud colored the temples, giving an impression of age. Clearly, the vision represented Sterrane’s father.

Still, the bard sang. His voice became deep and solemn
as he described Morhane’s spree of slaughter. The sky picture went fuzzy, striped suddenly with dawnlike stretches of red. Shadows seemed to crowd upon Garn in a whisper of song that left an impression of evil in its wake. The clouds, too, darkened, bunching into a solid mass that blotted the sun and made the day seem more like night. Then Mar Lon performed Sterrane’s return, a simple melody as straightforward and natural as the break of waves upon the shore. The clouds lightened to a neutral slate, drawing and twisting into a more normal configuration. He concluded with the imminent beauty of peace foretold by the legends. Normal colors and patterns returned to the horizon, though it seemed distinctly brighter to Garn, the sun sharper, the clouds whiter, and the blue blush of its background more uniform.

Buoyed by hope, Béarn’s citizens stood in the vacuum of the bard’s final note, and Garn knew they all longed for more music. Most moved in a dream whose silence was broken only by the last fading notes of the
lonriset.
Though grounded in reality, even Garn paused, enmeshed in that tranquil web of sound. Though it was the music that had spellbound him, the sky images seemed less explicable. Never before had he seen Shadimar use magic that could not pass for coincidence, yet Garn could think of no other source. But when he finally thought to turn his attention to the Eastern Wizard, Shadimar stood in place, looking as moved by Mar Lon’s performance as anyone.