The Western Wizard (23 page)

Carcophan reworked the current question in a way he considered fail-safe. “Does the collective consciousness of the Western Wizard exist?” If Tokar still lived, so would the memory of his predecessors. And, if his ceremony of passage had succeeded, the line would have passed to his successor.

The demon considered for a brief moment. “No. It does not.”

Dead.
The information did not surprise Carcophan. Odin’s vows constrained all of the Cardinal Wizards into working together to replace Tokar. First, they would need to find a likely candidate. Then they would send him or
her through the god-mediated tasks of Wizardry. If he survived, he would have proved his worth and become as immune to objects of law as demons and Wizards. But Shadimar was the one who had to set the process in motion. And, apparently, he still did not know the fate of the Western Wizard for certain.
Surely, the weakest of the Cardinal Wizards would not risk summoning demons. Which means he has to find out by slower, more routine methods.
Carcophan knew that eventually he would have to help replace the missing Wizard, but not until Shadimar contacted him.
And I can’t receive word unless and until he finds me.

Carcophan stared at the demon, attentive to the necessary question. “Is it true that the creation of the Gray Sword would require the presence of both Eastern and Western Wizards?”

Now the demon hesitated longer, apparently lost in thought. It assumed a more familiar demon shape, an angular horse body with splayed, catlike claws, a barbed tail, and a serpent’s head. “That was Odin’s intention. I have no reason to believe it would work otherwise.” It grinned, displaying a mouthful of black teeth, as sharp as daggers. “But you know as well as I that magic can never be fully predictable.”

Carcophan dared not hold the demon any longer. He turned his mind back to the service it owed him. “I don’t want you to retrieve the Sword of Power. But I want you to place it where I can call it without bringing one of your kind here.”

The demon laughed. “My kind will be grateful.” It lowered its head, black lids closing over huge, red eyes.

Carcophan shifted his focus from the binding wards to his own self-protection. The red bands began to fade, even before they burst, splattering magic into multicolored sparks. A high-pitched shrill rang through the room, like the scream of a dying rodent amplified to an earsplitting volume. The demon spun, whisking through the opening.

Human cries revealed its passage, echoing up the stair-well and throbbing through Carcophan’s head with a pain he knew might last for days. Tears washed to his eyes and he swore, not for the first time, that he would never
summon such an abomination again. Then he set to his own defenses. And hoped that his magic would prove strong enough to contain it.

*  *  *

Béarn’s royal nursemaid, Dorina, perched on the ledge of Miyaga’s bed, mesmerized by the stirring coverlet that matched the rise and fall of the girl’s every breath. The elderly Béarnide lowered her head, ignoring the thin, gray curtain of hair that fell into her eyes. Her mind continued to count in the rhythm of the child’s breathing, though she could no longer see the bed. Soon enough, Dorina knew, she would bury the child she had nurtured since birth, just as she had reared and lost Miyaga’s mother. But at least Morhane’s daughter had died of illness. Miyaga would be slaughtered to end the line, a child’s life stolen to satisfy custom.

A knock on the door disturbed Dorina’s lengthy vigil. She cringed, having dreaded this moment from the instant she had learned of Sterrane’s return. Miyaga stirred but did not awaken. “Who is it?” Dorina called softly.

In response, the door swung open, and Mar Lon entered. “The king will see Miyaga now. You need to come take him to her. It’s your job.”

“No.” Dorina crouched like a mother wolf. She stroked the girl’s hair protectively, unconsciously matching the cadence of her breaths. “He’ll kill her.”

Mar Lon met Dorina’s eyes directly, his dark gaze sympathetic but unyielding. “It’s his right. Don’t make this harder than it is already.”

Dorina hissed, tears filling her eyes. She glared back into Mar Lon’s eyes, so gentle for one who had just condemned a child. “You’re inhuman.”

Miyaga rolled, murmuring something unintelligible.

Mar Lon jerked his head toward the hallway, indicating Dorina should follow.

The nursemaid hesitated. As much as she needed to protect, it seemed cruel to discuss the child’s fate in her presence. Rising, Dorina walked slowly from the room, but only far enough for Mar Lon to slip outside with her and close the panel.

Once in the corridor, Mar Lon addressed Dorina’s comment as if no time had passed. “Inhuman? Me?
Morhane tortured citizens for trespassing. He killed his brother and all but destroyed the true king’s line. He put his son-in-law to death because Miyaga was a girl, not a grandson. That, Dorina, is inhuman.”

The hot tears stung Dorina’s eyes, and she stared at her feet. She harbored no love for Morhane, but Miyaga had become the focus of her life. The young princess seemed more daughter than charge. “She’s only a child. An orphan.”

“Which makes his majesty’s unpleasant task mercifully easier. Any of Morhane’s line left alive menaces his security. Surely even you can see that Béarn needs Sterrane and his descendants on the throne. You can’t thwart two decades of legend. If you’d troubled to come meet him like the rest of the staff, you’d see just how lucky we are that he came home.”

Dorina sobbed, her resolve shattered.

Mar Lon took her hand. “Come on. It’s time to meet the king.”

Dorina went, lost in a spinning maelstrom of grief. After a walk that seemed far too short, Mar Lon halted outside a game room door to brush the last tears from her eyes and smooth her disheveled, gray hair. “It has to be this way, Dorina.”

Dorina heard nothing. She stared at her feet until Mar Lon opened the door, revealing Sterrane. The king had risen to meet them and waited by the door. Though startled by the sudden and close presence of the king, Dorina remembered her manners. She curtsied mechanically, not daring to lift her eyes to his face. “You would see the child, Sire?”

When she received no reply, Dorina looked up, just in time to catch the end of Sterrane’s silent nod. The misery on his features, from his own recent loss, seemed nearly as intense as her own.

“Certainly, Sire.” Dorina spoke in a dead monotone. Memories of the vibrant girl whose fate rested in Sterrane’s hands reawakened waves of anguish. “Come with me, please, Sire.” She led the new king through corridors of carved granite, haunted by thoughts of Miyaga at play. Though she knew what she had to do, she considered leading Sterrane on a long, tortuous route. She discarded
the idea as quickly as it formed. Born and raised to Miyaga’s age in the castle, Sterrane surely knew the location of its bedrooms.

The torch-lined halls seemed unusually bleak and unfriendly. Dorina stared without seeing the steel-smoothed walls nor the fine oak door, with its tiny replica of the royal crest. One day, Dorina hoped, Sterrane’s children would sleep in that room in her charge, and the cycle could begin again. Much as she tried, that promise could not displace her sorrow. Every child was special, but no one could ever replace Miyaga.

When Dorina did not open the door, Sterrane admitted himself, shutting the panel behind him.

Outside, Dorina paced fretfully, hoping death would come quickly and without pain. She could not understand why Sterrane had chosen to perform the deed himself when so many guards would have had no choice but to do it at his command. Perhaps the new king had inherited some of the cold bloodthirstiness that his uncle had embraced. Still, in some ways, Dorina admired the decision. Miyaga had become Sterrane’s problem. To relegate such ugliness to another would be cruel.

Dorina let the tears drip from her eyes, collapsing helplessly against the wall to Miyaga’s room. For half an hour, she remained unmoving, oblivious to the crampy ache of tense muscles left too long in one position. Finally, gingerly, she climbed to legs that tingled from the restoration of blood flow, steadying herself against the door. Through the ironbound wood, she heard high-pitched giggling. She froze, pressing her ear to the door. Again, she heard childish laughter. At least, it seemed Sterrane intended a merciful execution. Dorina relaxed slightly, straining to hear the verbal exchange that followed. Though she could easily discern Sterrane’s gruff voice from Miyaga’s lilt, Dorina could not make out a word of the conversation.

More giggling wafted from beyond the door, followed by a crash so loud it ached through Dorina’s ear. A scream welled up in her throat, and she stifled it so abruptly she bit her tongue. Heart racing, she waited. Violent pounding shattered her composure and sent her scuttling halfway down the hall. As her wits returned, she
became furious. Even Morhane would not kill a child in such a brutal fashion. Drawing a resigned breath she believed might be her last, she paraded to the door. She grasped its handle, and the door swung open before she could pull. She found herself staring into the thick chest of the king.

Dorina stumbled backward and fell, eyes wide in terror. Only then did she notice the grinning child on Sterrane’s shoulders. “Nanna!” Miyaga shouted a greeting. “Have you met my new papa, Sterrane the Bear?”

The image proved too much for Dorina, and she lapsed into hysterical laughter. The solution seemed too simple and obvious for her to have missed, though panic had stripped her of logic. Raised as Sterrane’s daughter, Miyaga would become sister to his line. Suddenly, Dorina found herself liking the new king with all her heart, and she made herself a solemn vow to instill the morals and loyalty to blood that Miyaga’s grandfather had lacked. She owed Sterrane that much for his mercy.

A moment later, the king and his adopted daughter joined Dorina’s mirth. The three laughed until the hallways rang.

Two weeks of travel through fertile fields and woodlands brought Mitrian, Garn, Shadimar, and their escort of two Béarnian guardsmen to the plains before Pudar. Daily, they had overtaken merchants with heavily-loaded horses, mules, or covered carts. Their dusty party had earned glares and challenges from merchants suspicious of their unburdened horses and obvious weaponry, but the letter they carried, stamped with the high king’s seal, brought them safely through the lands between Béarn and Pudar.

The sun raised a scarlet glare in the dust swirling from the trail. It cast spears of light between the trees, accentuating every leaf and reddening the foam that bubbled on the horses’ chests. The wolf padded at the heels of Shadimar’s horse. Cottages lined their way, placed conveniently near the fields yet within sight of the city’s defenses. A merchant spoke with one of the guards at the gate, while his entourage prodded a string of stocky pack beasts through the entrance. Children stood beside piles of fresh vegetables, bowls of butter, and handmade crafts, their parents unable to afford stands in the marketplace.

Mitrian followed the merchant’s pack line through the gates, ignoring a young man who thrust a piece of parchment at her. She had little interest in the myriad religious and secular causes touted by the masses outside Pudar. The constant buzz of conversation drowned the cries of vendors lauding their wares. Merchants in gaudy robes tended stands covered with every item Mitrian could conceive of, and some she had never before seen. Sweet spices, meats, and fresh breads mingled their odors, reminding Mitrian of the savory meal Bel would serve when they arrived. Arduwyn’s wife had worked in a tavern frequented by Pudarian locals because of its food. The transients
and businessfolk tended to go to
The Dun Stag
, a tavern/inn combination famous for its ale. Freed of the need to work outside her home, Bel had turned her creative cooking efforts to meals well worth the trip.

Mitrian dismounted, passing the reins of her horse to one of the Béarnides. The animals would become dangerous amid the milling crowds in Pudar’s market. “We’ll meet you in the morning at
The Dun Stag
with the family you’re to escort back to Béarn.”

“Thank you.” The guard smiled. He had talked about his craving for
Dun Stag
ale for days.

Garn and Shadimar alighted, handing their reins to the other guard. The two Béarnides headed from the market, chatting animatedly in their native tongue.

Mitrian stood indecisively in the road. Despite months of living in the trading city, she had never tired of its market. Each day brought new wares and bargains, and she had even begun to learn the art of haggling. Still, she had come for a purpose, and Shadimar seemed anxious to continue home. Always introspective, the Wizard had become even quieter. Usually patient to a fault, he had begun to fidget, and he read or wandered while the others slept. Surely, he could travel faster alone. But he had promised Santagithi he would accompany Mitrian and Garn home; and, apparently, he would not break that vow. “I suppose we should go straight to Arduwyn’s and Bel’s cottage. I presume they live in the same place.”

“It’s day,” Garn addressed Mitrian, though his gaze remained fixed on the market. “He’ll be working, either out in the forest hunting or maybe selling.” He added the last, clearly as an excuse to browse the marketplace. “That merchant he used to work for seemed to think Arduwyn was a pretty good salesman. Maybe he’s back and hired him again.”

Mitrian had some difficulty following Garn’s pronouns, but she translated his intentions easily enough. Arduwyn was a competent salesman. She had seen him twist a patron’s emotions until the man essentially wound up buying his own dagger. But she guessed Garn’s underlying motive for searching for Arduwyn there was to give him a chance to shop. Sterrane had handed them each a pocketful of gold that begged spending. And Mitrian
still had one gem left from the collection she had amassed from the war spoils her father had given her, piece by piece, each bauble won in a different foray.

Garn took Mitrian’s hand, his strong, callused fingers warm in her grip. “If Brugon’s back, he probably set his table in the same place as last year.”