The Western Wizard (19 page)

Rage accentuated the rise and fall of Rathelon’s chest with every breath, and the rearing bear symbol seemed to twitch with a life of its own.

Baran accepted the necessary burden of first words in the wake of Mar Lon’s song. The bard’s harmonics made the guard’s voice sound tough and gravelly. “Lay down your arms, Rathelon. For the kingdom as well as your cause, it would be best if you do so peaceably. I would suggest you remand yourself to the custody of the Knights of Erythane.” The lieutenant hesitated a moment, as if hoping someone else would also jump rank and share the burden of degrading a superior officer. When no one did, he continued. “You’ll be temporarily relieved of your duties as captain until a swift and fair hearing.”

Garn remained in place at the gate, and Baran stepped up beside him.

Rathelon’s gaze flicked to the archers, who had lowered their bows. As his attention shifted to the swordsmen in his ranks, they looked away, not daring to meet his fiery stare. Gingerly, he removed his sword and dagger from their sheaths and stepped forward. Though Baran had spoken, Rathelon passed his weapons to Garn through the space between the bars of the gate. He spoke so softly, his words did not travel to the crowd. “I await the day I can deliver these to you again,
point first.
” Head high, will unbowed, he motioned for the gates to be opened.

Garn awakened on a yielding surface that seemed to mold to his body and felt smooth as silk against his skin. He lay still, savoring the security and downy comfort, hoping the dream would never end. An instant later, the dull ache of his wounds returned in a rush; and his thoughts flashed back to the morning after a pit fight that had nearly killed him. Enraged by the agony of a sword cut that had all but disemboweled him, he had attacked a guard. The bruises and slashes that the other guards’ whips had stamped into Garn’s flesh felt hauntingly similar to the injuries he had sustained during his break-in to Béarn’s castle.

Garn pushed pain aside, concentrating on the heat of sun rays magnified through glass. He opened his lids. Late morning sunlight glared into his eyes, slanting through a window set over the head of his silk-sheeted bed.
Bed?
The image did not fit into Garn’s view of the world. He shook his head, trying to clear a sensation he had known only a few times before: morning confusion. Usually, he slept on the barest edge of waking, alert to every sound and movement around him. This time, two days without sleep and his body’s need to heal had driven him into the darkest depths of unconsciousness. He lay still, seeking clues to time and place by the flickering shadows on the ceiling. A wall sconce studded with pearls supported a lantern above his head, and the image snapped the last piece into place.

Garn recalled trailing Sterrane, Baran, and Mar Lon through the courtyard, across the planking that bridged the shallow moat, and through great, iron doors festooned with the royal crest. They had entered a hallway broad enough to hold a small war. Brackets of bronze
held burning torches carved into the shapes of every animal Garn had ever seen, and some unfamiliar ones as well. Bears, deer, cats, horses, and foxes clutched the flaming rods, each etched in intricate detail. Precious gems hung in strings from each bracket, swaying slightly in the breeze of his passage.

There, Garn’s memory ended. He furrowed his brow, delving into his mind for clues, but the lost time would not come. Concerned, he crawled across the bed. It gave, pliant to his every movement, and he clambered to the floor amid the grind and ache of his injuries. The room had no other furnishings. A niche in the wall supported a bar, a fresh tunic, a pair of breeks, and a matched set of white wraps draped across it. Beneath it, a pan held a pitcher of tepid water.

Garn glanced at his own tattered clothing. His shirt clung like a moth-eaten rag, and the knees of his britches had nearly disappeared. Bruises mottled his arms, knees, and calves. Old blood discolored the bandage on his wrist, and the cut itched mercilessly. Quickly, he washed and changed, rewrapping the dog bite and the slash across his wrist. He saw no evidence of infection, and both had already begun to heal.

As Garn buckled his sword belt into place over his new breeks, a knock rattled the door to his room, the sound reverberating through the confines.

Unfamiliar with the proper conventions and hating to shout at someone he could not see, Garn pulled the panel open. A burly guard in Béarn’s colors appeared startled at the swiftness of Garn’s answer. For a moment he froze in place. Then, restoring formality, he bowed. “Sir, I was told to escort you to the feast and coronation.”

Garn had no idea what the last word meant, but “feast” he understood only too well. He scarcely remembered his last meal, meager fare before a campfire at a time when anticipation and excitement had held hunger mostly at bay. Assuming he had slept through the night and nearly to midday, a full day’s cycle had passed since he had last eaten. Nevertheless, his first thought was for his wife and friends. “Where’s Mitrian?”

The Béarnide ushered Garn out into the corridor. “The
king and your friends will meet you there.” Without another word, he headed up the hallway. Garn trotted after him, fascinated by the walls’ ornamentation. Where they were not carved and painted, spotless tapestries told stories, scene by scene. Some depicted tales of the world’s creation, equally split between the religions of the Westerners, the Easterners, and the Northmen. Garn recognized the lore from his companions’ prayers, though he believed none of it. Other tapestries showed gruesome slaughters at the swords of golden-haired reavers who, he supposed, were Renshai. Several particularly intricate weavings displayed mages, always in a cluster of four and surrounded by beasts of earth, sea, and air.

Garn’s previous short excursion through the hallways, and even into Morhane’s bedchamber, had not prepared him for the finery of the West’s high kingdom. Even the castle in Pudar, which he had seen in the days when he served as a guard, held only a fraction of Béarn’s grandeur. The guard led Garn down a cross corridor, while the ex-gladiator savored the creative beauty of the halls. Soon, the gild on the torch holders became simple, a blue brocade, but that did not detract from the dazzling display of Béarn’s wealth.

The hallway ended at a double set of teak doors emblazoned with the royal crest, outlined in fire opals. A pair of guards stood at attention just outside, their glaives crossed over the entrance. As Garn and his escort come up to them, the glaives snapped down to the guards’ sides, butts smacking the stone simultaneously. Together, they turned, pushing aside the teak doors.

Loud, tinny music escaped from the growing crack between the doors. When they opened fully, Garn first noticed a rough-coated bear capering at the end of a chain. His gaze went naturally to the man at the other end, a tall, lean Westerner dressed in a multicolored tunic. The music came from a line of minstrels playing mandolins, their harmony competent but disappointing in the wake of Mar Lon’s talent. Beyond the entertainment, four rows of tables filled the dining hall, each with a central candelabra made of silver and a lace cloth covered with steaming dishes. At the farthest end of the room, Sterrane sat at the head table, Mar Lon and Mitrian
at either hand. Shadimar and Baran sat across from the king, an empty chair between them. The lieutenant wore a casual black tunic and britches, the castle colors conspicuously absent, especially so near Mar Lon’s ever-present uniform. Courtiers and visiting dignitaries occupied the other fifteen tables, and servants wound along the aisles, refilling wine glasses and collecting discards.

Garn’s escort led him on a winding course between the tables, then gestured him to the seat beside Shadimar and directly across from Sterrane. Garn took it gladly, unable to resist the allure of roast fowl, thick cream soup, and an array of vegetables.

Baran greeted Garn cheerily. “Ah. The sleeper awakens at last. You missed the action.”

“What happened?” Garn asked, more interested in the huge portions of food a servant dolloped onto his plate. Though he had meant his query to refer directly to Baran’s comment, Mitrian apparently misinterpreted. She addressed his other unanswered question.

“You collapsed in front of the court.” Mitrian studied Garn with her soft blue eyes. “Are you well?”

“Fine now,” Garn hoped to steer the conversation away from his welfare. The bruises from his crawl, climb, and fall began to ache again, and he shifted restlessly to find a comfortable position on the hard wooden chair. “Just needed some sleep, I guess. I’d stayed awake for a day, a night, and another day.”

Mar Lon smiled, aware, as no one else in the room was, of what had kept Garn awake through the previous night. Sterrane remained silent, obviously still somewhat dazed by the circumstances and proceedings. Shadimar’s silence seemed natural and familiar. Garn could feel the wolf stirring beneath the table when his own fidgeting caused him to poke a furry side. Now that sleep no longer remained his top priority, the throb of his many wounds had become more noticeable.

As the server wandered away to tend another latecomer, Garn ate ravenously, more than his share of the finest food he had ever tasted. Sterrane feasted with the same exuberance, but Shadimar passed food to Secodon beneath the table and seemed not to consume anything himself.

When Sterrane had eaten his fill, and even Garn debated over a last serving of corn, a guard approached Mar Lon. They spoke in earnest tones for some time. Then the bard excused himself, leaving Sterrane in Mitrian’s care. The guard who had approached Mar Lon dismissed the musicians and the bear. At first, Garn thought the bard would sing again, and he smiled at the memory of Mar Lon’s previous concert. Yet the bard did not carry his instrument. Instead, he waved his fingers at one of the tables, and the Knights of Erythane joined him on the entertainment platform.

Baran groaned.

Garn turned his attention to the lieutenant. “What’s wrong?”

Baran kept his voice low, pitched only for Garn to hear. “If the knights take part in the coronation, it’ll last halfway to the harvest. They’ll invoke every convention since the first king crawled from his mother’s womb.”

“What’s coronation?” Garn watched as the servants cleared food away, rearranging tables and their occupants to open a lane from door to platform. Soon, only the head table remained in the way.

Baran watched the servants work. “That’s when they give Sterrane his crown, and he officially becomes Béarn’s king.”

“Oh.” Garn pondered. It seemed a simple enough feat to place a crown on a man’s head, even a man as large and tall as Sterrane. Though Santagithi had demanded obedience to himself and to his officers, the general cared little for formality and not at all for pomp. Not until Garn had become a Pudarian guard had he discovered that kingdoms tended to turn even the simplest tasks into stilted, rehearsed exchanges or hours of ceremony.

One of the servants approached Sterrane, nudged from behind by his fellows. As he reached Mar Lon’s vacated chair, he prostrated himself on the floor at Sterrane’s feet. Accustomed to the dignified bows of the courtiers, Garn was wholly surprised by the maneuver. At first, he believed the servant had fainted. Apparently thinking the same, Sterrane leapt from his seat to the servant’s aid. Concern drove him to slip back into the language he had
used almost exclusively for the past eighteen years, though badly. “You well?”

The servant rolled his eyes to Sterrane, the nearness of the king sending him into shivering spasms of fear. “Majesty . . . I,” he stammered. “I just . . .” He froze there, avoiding Sterrane’s eyes, his own gaze measuring the distance back to his peers.

Garn felt certain that Morhane had made the servants’ jobs difficult. The man’s terror made it clear that, not long ago, coming so near the king would have guaranteed punishment.

Many silent moments passed. Finding Béarn’s heir on the floor, the courtiers and guards froze.

Sterrane rose first, offering a hand to the servant for support. When the man remained in place, Sterrane seized an arm and hoisted him gently to his feet. The servant went rigid, eyes wide and jaw set, obviously torn between respect and the need to run.

Garn exchanged a smile with Mitrian. They had for too long thought of Sterrane as a giant, harmless idiot to imagine men paralyzed with fear in his presence. A full night of sleep and the three glasses of wine Garn had downed with dinner allowed him to see the humor in the situation.

Sterrane clapped his other huge hand to the servant’s back, continuing to support the man’s arm. He returned to Béarnese. “What can I do for you?”

“Do for me, Sire?” The servant squeaked. “For me, Sire? Nothing for me. We just wondered . . .” He trailed off, glancing toward his peers for support. They shifted nervously, saying nothing.

Many of the courtiers and dignitaries rose, politely craning to see the spectacle.

“Wondered?” Sterrane repeated.

“. . . wondered, Sire, if we could move your table a little to open the way for your coronation.”

Sterrane’s brow furrowed. He glanced from the head table to the platform. The servant trembled in his grip. “You need my permission to move a table?”

The servant flushed, his voice clear in the quiet that had descended over the dining hall in the wake of the entertainment. Even the conversations ceased as the court
watched curiously to see how the new king handled the lowest of his subjects. “Well, Sire. That’s your decision, Sire. Usually not, but this move required you to stand, Sire.”

Warmed by the wine, Garn nudged Baran and mimicked in a whisper, “Usually not, Sire, but this move required you to fling yourself on the floor, Sire.”

Baran snorted, but he regained his composure before he laughed outright. Garn decided to make it his mission to provoke Baran back into the wild excitement that had made him seem silly back in the clearing. “You’re obviously feeling better,” Baran returned.

“Sleep helped. And I don’t ache as much as I did.”

“That’s the wine.”

“Where?”