The Western Wizard (20 page)

Baran chuckled softly. “I meant the wine took some of the pain away. Where’d you get those wounds from anyway?”

Garn thought it wiser not to reveal the treachery. “Sometime when we’re alone and we have a lot of time, I’ll tell you.”

“I’ll take that as a promise.” Baran turned his attention back to the exchange between Sterrane and the servant.

Garn followed the lieutenant’s gaze in time to see the servant trotting back to his fellows. Shadimar and Mitrian had risen. Baran and Garn did the same. Seizing a lip of the table, Sterrane personally dragged it into position. As its wooden legs skidded across the floor, the edge of the overly long cloth bunched on a lumpy object that had lain beneath the table, and fur poked between the weave. As the lace fluttered back into position, Secodon was revealed. The wolf slithered back beneath the table. The diners readjusted their chairs, sat back in place, and resumed their conversations.

Baran motioned one of the servants over. He spoke rapidly in Béarnese. As the servant trotted off to attend to the lieutenant’s request, Mar Lon raised his hands for attention. The bard remained on the platform, and the Erythanian Knights fanned into a symmetrical formation. Each held a pike. Those to Mar Lon’s left clutched the haft in their right fists, and those to his right directly
mirrored their partners. Helmets covered their heads, polished to a brightness that reflected the torchlight; but their stillness kept those highlights in position. Their pressed tabards covered dress tunics without a wrinkle, though they looked bulky over mail.

Mar Lon cleared his throat, and the room fell silent. He lowered his hands. “As you know, we have gathered to . . .” The remainder of the speech strained Garn’s knowledge of Béarnese, and he abandoned attempts to follow the proceedings. Instead, he allowed Mar Lon’s pleasant voice to flow around him, comfortable with its pitch and tempo and not needing to understand individual words.

“Do you see what I mean?” Baran whispered.

“It’s not so bad,” Garn hissed back. “I like listening to Mar Lon.”

“That’s because you haven’t heard the ‘responsibility of the high king of Béarn’ speech ninety times. And just wait. The knights will have their chance. Then you’ll wish you hadn’t awakened yet.”

The servant who had chatted with Baran slipped up to his side, clearly nervous about disrupting the ceremony. He placed an unopened flask of wine on the table. Through the irregular thickness of glass, it looked nearly black.

“Thank you,” Baran said.

“Here.” The servant pulled a second flask from his shirt and set it beside the first. “Once the carpet goes down, I’m not bringing more.” He added in afterthought, “Sir.”

Baran smiled. “This’ll do fine. Thank you.”

The servant scuttled back the way he had come.

Baran turned back to Garn, speaking just loudly enough to be heard by Garn without disrupting the ceremony. “The ‘sir’ was for your sake, you know. Yernya and I have known one another forever.”

“What’s this?” Garn indicated the flasks.

“Medicine.”

“Medicine?” Garn glanced over at Mitrian, knowing she would not approve of his inattentiveness. But she sat in a thoughtful silence, her eyes riveted on Mar Lon. Shadimar seemed equally engrossed. Sterrane shifted
restlessly, his gaze circumscribing the room before returning to Mar Lon. He stifled a yawn with great dignity.

“It’s an import from the East. It’ll take away the pain of your wounds completely.” Uncorking the flask, he filled Garn’s glass as well as his own. “As a lucky side effect, it takes away the pain of sitting through long-winded speeches.”

Mar Lon indicated the dining room doors, and they opened as one. Two sentries unrolled a thick yellow carpet that spanned the lane between the tables and ended at the platform. A dozen guards took paired positions beside it, their castle uniforms thinner and more crisply pleated than the military tan and blue worn by the soldiers in the courtyard.

Garn stared at the glass Baran had poured for himself. “Aren’t you on duty?”

Baran grinned at a private joke, then explained it. “Yesterday and last night I was. This morning Mar Lon commanded me . . .” He stiffened, imitating the Pudarian accent of the king’s personal bodyguard with impressive accuracy, “. . . Lieutenant, you’re officially off duty now. You can remove your court colors and relax for the day. Or you can walk the south grounds for six consecutive nights followed by a beating, a bludgeoning, and a month-long fast. I may add your execution for good measure. Make your choice.”

Only two years after the Great War, Garn still held an aversion to anything Eastern, but he tasted the wine out of politeness. It had a sweet, comfortable flavor, enhanced by a brace of unfamiliar spices. “That seems a bit extreme.” Enjoying the wine, he drained the glass.

“In all fairness, I got rather insistent. But I’d been on patrol the night before Mar Lon sent me to you. Excitement kept me going in the clearing. And, of course, I couldn’t go to bed until the trials finished, which wasn’t until this morning and—”

“Trials?” Garn lowered his empty glass.

“Trials, yes. Did you think we’d crown Sterrane without removing his enemies first?”

“You mean Rathelon and Koska?”

“And a few others. Yes. We also freed a handful of political prisoners left by Morhane. There weren’t many.
Morhane believed in removing his dissenters more permanently.” Baran sipped at his own wine.

The news hardly surprised Garn. “His family, too, apparently.”

Baran took a longer pull, shrugging to obviate the need to talk with his mouth full. He swallowed. “My father died in that coup, and I hate even the memory of it. Morhane had no right to be king. I despise his decision to slaughter so many every bit as much as I treasure Sterrane’s escape. But taking a throne does require ending the previous line. Eventually, Sterrane’s going to have to terminate Morhane’s descendants. Luckily, he only has to deal with one. I don’t envy his need to kill a child, but to do otherwise would be folly. It would mean making the same mistake as Morhane: leaving an enemy and a figurehead alive.”

The turn of the conversation saddened and unnerved Garn. While Baran refilled the glasses, Garn recalled the moments when he had believed Miyaga’s death necessary. He wished he had gathered the coldness and courage to perform the deed. Her slaying might have become just one more murder plaguing his conscience, and he would have done his part to protect innocent Sterrane from suffering the guilt. “So Rathelon’s already been handled?”

“Depends on what you mean by ‘handled.’” Baran took another sip. “He was banished, along with Koska and the others.” Obviously bothered by the king’s decision, Baran nearly emptied his second glass in one gulp.

Dizzied by the speed with which he’d consumed his own last drink, Garn savored the Eastern wine more slowly. “You would have had Rathelon executed, wouldn’t you?” Garn knew he would have seen to Rathelon’s death in Sterrane’s place. Something about the banished captain reminded him distinctly of the Eastern enemies he had battled on the Western Plains.

“I won’t question the king’s judgment.” Baran dodged the inquiry.

“Fine. Don’t question. Just tell me what you would have done if you were Sterrane.”

“I’m not Sterrane. And it’s not for me to imagine such a thing.” Baran took another huge sip. He looked past
Garn, suddenly intent on the proceedings he had dismissed moments ago.

Garn smiled, feeling contented, despite the topic. As Baran had promised, the wine did ease most of the pain. What remained scarcely bothered him. The razor edge of alertness had disappeared from his consciousness; and, for once, he did not miss it. He trusted Mar Lon to roust every potential Morhane supporter. With Rathelon and the other enemies dispatched, Sterrane and his companions had nothing to fear. “Just pretend you’re six again. It’s your turn to play king and Sterrane’s to play court guard.”

Baran returned his gaze to Garn. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

Garn finished the last swallow. “No.”

“Very well.” Baran lowered his voice further, though the booming speeches of knights and bard already fully drowned their exchange. “I’d have killed Rathelon. Given the chance, I’d have done it with my own hands.” Baran poured Garn another drink, then emptied the flask into his own glass. He stiffened, abruptly realizing his mistake. “Not that I think Sterrane should have done it himself. Zera’im’s blessing.” He invoked the Western god of honor. “That’s the price you pay for a fair king. I’d rather a few sentences that seem too light than Morhane’s standard beheadings and hangings.”

Garn looked at Baran, and both men smiled. Garn had seen and heard enough to know that he liked Sterrane’s lieutenant. When he worked, he worked with full dedication. And, apparently, he became equally committed to his play. Garn liked the balance every bit as much as the deep-seated loyalty he knew Baran held for his king. The aftereffects of the wine also left him feeling happy, frivolous, and benevolent at once. He wanted to tell the guard how good he felt about leaving a close friend in his hands, wanted to encourage the responsibility that Baran had already taken upon himself.

But before Garn could find the words, he found the need for another drink. This time, he poured.

*  *  *

The coronation lasted longer than Garn’s patience, and he quickly tired of the politics. To him, even the finery
and indulgences were not worth the tedium of becoming a king. The wine kept his pain at bay, but it also spurred a need to urinate that became nearly irresistible. It seemed to Garn as if his bladder might burst before a change in Mar Lon’s tone drew even his eye to the ceremony. A moment later, he realized that everyone else, including Mar Lon, had his or her attention fixed on the door. Garn followed their gazes to a boy who traveled the length of the walkway. A satin pillow balanced on his forearms, cradling a gold circlet. The light of myriad torches winked and sparked from its surface; apparently the page was quivering. As he arrived before the platform, Mar Lon gestured to Sterrane.

Sterrane glanced briefly at Garn, and his eyes betrayed uncertainty. Baran reached across the table and gave the heir’s hand an encouraging squeeze, knocking over a salt bowl with a clumsiness attributable to the wine. Shadimar nodded in encouragement, saying nothing.

The instant Sterrane’s foot sank into the carpet, the room fell completely silent. The guards shifted, falling into a well-rehearsed backup pattern around the platform and along the walkway. Sterrane moved up between Mar Lon and the page. The boy knelt, head bowed, circlet offered to the massive new king.

Mar Lon spoke directly to Sterrane, but his voice remained clearly audible. “Sterrane Valar’s son, your majesty, welcome home. Our swords are in the service of Béarn and yourself. May your reign prove long and . . .”

“. . . beautiful,” Garn and Baran whispered simultaneously. Both men buried their faces in their hands to suppress their laughter. For quite some time, Garn studiously glanced at every other person in the room, knowing a single glimpse of Baran’s face would send them both over the edge into hysteria. His view gave him an interesting perspective of the room. Despite the solemnity of the knights and guards on duty, the courtiers and off-duty guards smiled and drank at least as much as the lieutenant and himself.

Insight blossomed slowly; but when it did, it seemed like the wisest revelation that had ever come to a man.
Of course they’re celebrating. Sterrane’s return is a happy occasion, not something to suffocate in solemnness.
The
joy seemed tangible. And though Garn reveled in it, he also appreciated the decorum and good sense that those on duty displayed. Should a threat arise, the guards would meet it.
Not me though.
Garn rolled his gaze back to Baran as the lieutenant did the same. They stifled laughter again, though one snort broke through.

Mitrian glared at her husband, and her disapproval stole Garn’s mirth in an instant.

Sterrane plucked the circlet from the pillow, placing it, as was the custom, on his own head. “Thank you,” he told the boy.

The page seemed at a loss for a response. “Thank you more, Sire.” He rose. Turning elegantly, he walked from the room at a pace faster than formality dictated.

Sterrane faced the crowd, about to speak his first words before an inner court audience. The suspense grew tangible. Though well-liquored, the nobles waited like carvings, unspeaking for fear they might miss a single syllable.

Sterrane wiped his palms on his breeks. “Friends. I made my first proclamation on Béarn’s streets, so this will have to be my second.” His gaze shifted in Garn’s direction, and the ex-gladiator suddenly wished his vision less blurry. “I would like to name my new captain of the guard: Baran Barder’s son. Rise, Captain.”

“Gods’ mercy.” Baran froze in his seat, shaking his head as if to clear hours worth of wine in an instant. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he stood with a grace that belied his state of near-inebriation. He pronounced each word cautiously to avoid slurring, and that made his speech as ponderous as that of the knights. “I don’t believe it’s possible for any man to be happier than I am right now. I can think of no one I’d rather serve and no title I’d rather hold.” He considered a long time, his mind slowed. Only the fact that he remained standing clued Garn that Baran had more to say. “By morning, I hope, I’ll be worthy of serving you again.”

Laughter ruffled through the audience, and it felt comfortable after hours of ostentation. Mar Lon cringed, his sympathy for Baran obvious. If not for his insistence, Baran would still be at Sterrane’s side, with his dignity and sobriety intact. Garn felt proud of his drinking partner,
certain his own mind and mouth could not have risen to the occasion at all.

“Welcome home,” Baran finished. “May your reign prove long and . . .” His lips twitched as he tried valiantly not to laugh. Garn suffocated his own amusement with a hand clamped over his lips.

“Beautiful,” Sterrane finished. “Beautiful, Captain Baran.” Hopping down from the platform, he caught his childhood friend into a hearty, masculine embrace that surprised his escort. The guards hastily scrambled to follow their king. Garn felt tears welling in his own eyes. His labor in Béarn was finally finished, and none of it had been in vain. Though Garn would miss his guileless companion, Sterrane belonged here in Béarn, where he could speak the language with competence and the people loved him. It reminded Garn that he still had a long way to go before he found his own niche, with his wife and his son in a town that had once kept him enslaved. Sterrane’s battles had ended, Garn’s had not yet begun.