The Western Wizard (29 page)

Shadimar’s explanation reminded Colbey of their first conversation on the battlefield after the Great War. “You
once said that the Southern Wizard probably consorted with demons to find me.”

“True.”

“Yet he only found Rache.”

Shadimar nodded.

Colbey pressed, recalling the conversation vividly, though years had passed since that time. “You told me that this Wizard missed Mitrian because early Wizards named the Golden Prince of Demons a man. But this wouldn’t have kept him from finding me. Then you said that this Carcophan probably only asked about full-blooded Renshai to sort out the children of conquerors.”

Again, Shadimar confirmed Colbey’s memory with a nod.

“You questioned my parentage.” Colbey’s eyes narrowed, still angered by the offense. His mother and father had both died in battle, heroes, as Renshai had been meant to die. Neither line held a trace of foreign blood.

“Clearly a mistake,” Shadimar said.

“You said there were other possible reasons why the ‘sources of magic’ did not identify me.”

“A few, yes.”

“And those are?”

“Technical reasons that have to do with the proper way of calling, binding, and questioning demons.”

Colbey said nothing, awaiting more details.

“Will that do?” Shadimar prompted.

Colbey considered. He realized that, if he were explaining a combat to Shadimar, he would use the vague term “sword stroke” rather than specifying the mechanics of the maneuver. He nodded. “I’ll continue my story.”

“Please do.”

Colbey rested a heel against the leg of his chair. “After Tokar told me about the slaughter of the Renshai, I vowed vengeance against every member of every one of the seventeen tribes that had united against one people. Eventually, they would have slain me, but I would have left many corpses in my wake.”

“What stopped you?”

“Tokar. First, he tried to convince me to stay. He said he had summoned me for a purpose that went far beyond
vengeance. That didn’t convince me to stay. Then he lapsed into a coughing fit that did.” Colbey explained. “To a Northman, and especially to a Renshai, nothing is worse than illness. It robs all glory from death and assures an eternity in Hel. I’ve studied herbal lore; at times my knowledge has bought me a welcome in Western farm towns that would otherwise have spurned or attacked me. I believed I could help Tokar’s malady.”

“There was nothing you could do, you know.” Shadimar smiled knowingly.

“I know that now. He was preparing for some kind of magical death. But, at the time, I decided to delay my revenge a few days longer. And Tokar didn’t try to convince me otherwise.”

Shadimar yawned, dismissing his rudeness with an apologetic wave. “Did you meet Tokar’s apprentice?”

“Haim. Yes.”

“What did you think of him?”

“Quite frankly, not much.” Colbey looked at Shadimar for clues to his response. He did not want to offend. Colbey considered trying to read the Wizard’s thoughts, but dismissed this as rude. Yet just the idea of trying brought him the faintest trace of Shadimar’s derisive mood. Encouraged by Shadimar’s own apparent scorn, Colbey continued. “He seemed frail and uncertain. He had that high-strung manner of a man who always anticipates failure, no matter how careful his preparations. He talked often, yet it rarely seemed of consequence. I don’t remember much of what he said.”

“And Tokar? What did you think of him?”

Colbey considered a moment, then answered honestly. “He seemed a man of great consequence, yet deeply troubled. And, of course, he killed himself before I got to know him well.” Colbey cringed. To a Northman, suicide was a grave and cowardly dishonor, assuring a place in Hel. Though he knew other cultures did not view self-slaying as heinous, that some even considered it an act of courage, Colbey could not help feeling as if he had affronted Shadimar and his colleague.

Again, Shadimar combed his fingers through his beard. “Tell me about the ceremony of passage.”

The terminology confused Colbey. “You mean Tokar’s death rite?”

Shadimar nodded. “You witnessed it?”

“I watched the whole thing.”

“A rare honor indeed. I’m not certain any mortal has ever done so before you.”

“Strange.” Colbey drew his other foot to the chair. “As insistent as Tokar was that Haim and I come along, I just assumed mortals were necessary.”

“A mortal, yes. His apprentice.” Shadimar spoke calmly, but the fingers twisting in his beard betrayed distress. “Tokar
asked
you to watch the ceremony?”

“I was all ready to leave.” Despite the years, Colbey could feel rage and anguish rising. “Had my people simply died in a brave combat, their bodies intact and their souls in Valhalla, I would have rejoiced and held no grudge. But the Western Wizard confirmed my worst fears. The Northmen had come at night, unannounced, like a pack of slinking curs. And they had mutilated the bodies so no Renshai could reach Valhalla, no matter how bravely he had fought.” Colbey scowled, gaze distant, arms crossed over his sword belt.

Shadimar’s hands stilled in his beard. “Just like the Renshai once did to their people.”

Anger seared Colbey. “Never,” he said through gritted teeth. “Never once did Renshai attack at night or without fair warning.”

“Perhaps not.” Shadimar bore in. “But they did hack apart enemies. You know that’s how they became an exiled tribe.” A sibilance entered his voice as he added, “And though Renshai did declare war before attacking, sometimes
they declared war on cities at peace so long they had no army.
”

Colbey drew breath to defend the Renshai, to remind Shadimar that the tribe had always accepted an enemy’s surrender. But the grief in Shadimar’s usually empty eyes unsettled Colbey, and he remembered the Renshai’s attack against the so-called “mages” of the town of Myrcidë. They had fought back valiantly, despite having no army, yet their visual trickery had proven no match for sharpened steel. He knew that Shadimar still lived in the ruins of that city, which had once been his own.

From deference to his blood brother, Colbey softened his rationalization. “I admit that, sometimes, the Renshai’s exuberance for war overcame their common sense. I’m sorry about what happened to Myrcidë. That was clearly wrong, and I hope it won’t come between our friendship.”

Shadimar’s face returned to its usual, placid configuration. “When I became a Wizard, I gave up my mortal ties. Always, Colbey, the tasks and causes of Cardinal Wizards come before anything and anyone that might have seemed important to me when my life had a visible end.” His fingers fell from his beard. “And even if I could still hold the offense against Renshai, how could I hold it against a man who was only a child then, following the ways of his elders?”

Colbey did not tell Shadimar that, in the Renshai culture, a child became an adult the day he first blooded his sword nor that he had found the same thrill in the war against Myrcidë as his elders. Only as he had aged did he see the folly in the Renshai’s war indiscretions, and he did not mean to push Shadimar’s forgiveness too far. “I appreciate your benevolence. Many men would hold such a grudge. That’s one of the things that made me choose your cause over that of most Northmen. To the good, evil must be destroyed, and life is simple. They see the world in absolutes: good and evil, right and wrong, white and black. They miss all the shades of color in between. That which doesn’t conform exactly to the concepts they see as right, like the Renshai, must be destroyed.” He looked directly at Shadimar, finding an expression of surprise. “The Myrcidians were too different. They could never have survived in the Northlands.”

Shadimar studied Colbey as if seeing him for the first time. “I’m impressed.”

Colbey smiled insolently. “I can spell ‘sword,’ too. Now, do you think I’d make a suitable champion?”

Shadimar sucked in a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “Yes. And no. The age thing is still a problem, and remember what I said about giving up mortal concerns. Since you’d be a Wizard’s champion, not a Wizard, you wouldn’t have to surrender your ties. Currently, they’re not a problem. But if for any reason the Renshai turned
against neutrality, you would have to work against them. Could you do that?”

Colbey did not hesitate. “No.” He added, “But I can’t possibly see that as even a potential problem. I’m training all of the Renshai with the same loyalty to one another as I have to them. And they’re all Westerners, which gives them a natural bent toward neutrality.”

“Likely or not, it’s still something to think about.”

Colbey nodded, having serious doubts about his offer, despite the bond he had willingly formed with the Wizard. He hoped Shadimar did not see something he had missed. From birth, his loyalty to the Renshai had never wavered or faltered, and he would rather die in withering agony, his soul condemned to Hel, than bring ruin upon his own.
If it became a problem, I could kill myself.
The idea seemed foreign, so against the tenets he had lived for so long, the glory in battle he had sought above all other things. Yet, if it became necessary, Colbey knew he could force his hand.

Shadimar’s voice penetrated Colbey’s brooding, seeming horribly misplaced. “You were about to tell me about Tokar’s ceremony of passage.”

Colbey felt as if he were awakening slowly from a nightmare and tumbling into a second, equally vivid. With effort, he drove his mind backward, to a day a decade past that he would as soon forget but remembered as clearly as yesterday. “You want details, I presume?”

“As many as you can remember.”

“I agreed to watch the Wizard’s ceremony with the condition that, when it finished, Tokar would let me treat his illness.” Colbey cringed at the memory of the old Wizard’s hacking cough and the blood that stained his teeth and beard. “So, late that evening, Tokar led Haim and me along a rocky trail in the Weathered Mountains. The sky had gone gray, yet there was not a hint of rain. It seemed more as if the clouds had drawn together to form a veil. I felt a sensation I can’t describe well, a certainty of impending crisis, as if gods struggled beyond the curtain of clouds. Silence seemed to hang, more like a void than an absence of sound, and only bird trills broke it on occasion. I remember wondering why birds were out in the gloom. As to us, we made no conversation.
Tokar’s face held a look of pain, which seemed natural because of his illness. But he also looked uncertain.”

Shadimar’s expression turned dubious, his features nearly matching Tokar’s, though surely for different reasons. “Uncertainty? Purpose, perhaps.”

“Uncertainty,” Colbey clung to his description. “I sensed it, though I spent most of the walk gathering herbs. Haim was sweating so badly, his clothes were soaked. I thought he might have wet . . .”

“Uncertainty?” Shadimar clung to the question.

Colbey laughed at Shadimar’s tenaciousness. “I was absolutely certain. So I asked if something troubled him. And if I could help.”

“What did Tokar say? Exactly.”

“Exactly?”

“If you can remember.”

Though ten years had passed, Colbey recalled every word. “He said, ‘Renshai, the most important decision I will ever make confronts me at a time when I thought I had already made my final choices.’” Colbey assumed the Western Wizard’s graveled tone. “‘And I have only moments to make it.’ Then he turned to Haim. ‘How do you make a decision?’” Colbey paused, his memory failing here. “I’m sorry, Shadimar. I can’t remember Haim’s reply.”

“Paraphrase.”

Colbey cleared his throat, though he felt no need. It was a delaying tactic. “Haim went into a long explanation that sounded like a well-learned lecture. He talked about gathering every shred of evidence, considering every alternative, and exploring each possible outcome. I remember him saying that the process could take months or years and that the more difficult and important the decision, the more patience a man must have. He said that this method rarely failed him.” Colbey chuckled.

“Did you laugh
then
, too?”

“Yes,” Colbey admitted.

“You disagree with Haim’s method?”

Colbey laughed again. “That’s precisely what Tokar asked me.”

“What did you say?”

Colbey considered. “I said, ‘My method is the same.
The difference is time. I make my decisions as quickly as an eye blink, and the more important the decision, the faster I have to make it. I make my choices on the battlefield. Since I’m still alive, I’ve obviously never once made a mistake.’”

Shadimar sat up. “What did Tokar say to that?”

“Nothing. He fell into a troubled silence. We’d been walking for the entire conversation, and we entered a lush valley deep in the mountains. The clouds had stretched apart, and rainbows arched from peak to peak. Streaks of light slithered like snakes between the bands, but they weren’t lightning. I still smelled no rain. Clearly, Tokar had made his decision, because his aura had changed to one of utter tranquillity.”

Shadimar leaned so far toward Colbey he seemed on the verge of falling from the bed. Secodon sat up, ears pricked forward.

“Haim sat on a rock, wringing his hands. I waited nearby, clutching the herbs I hoped to use on the ailing Wizard. Tokar stood on a knoll, his stance as open as a Western preacher at a ceremony.” Colbey paused, hoping Shadimar would stop him. He waited for the Eastern Wizard to claim he had heard enough and to let Colbey drop the memory before the pain returned, still excruciating despite being dulled by time. But when Shadimar said nothing, Colbey continued dutifully. “The old Wizard chanted strange words in a language I didn’t recognize. Visions appeared—”

“The beings that represent great good and great evil in your mind.”

“Baldur, the most beautiful of the gods,” Colbey confirmed. “And Mana-garmr, the wolf destined to extinguish the sun with the blood of men at the world’s end. These came together, warping into a shapeless, gray cloud that floated into the sky. Then streaks of crimson slid from the heavens, forming into the shapes of long, lean men.” The first stirrings of agony lanced through Colbey’s chest, and he caught his breath. “True to my word, I made my decision instantly. Drawing my sword, I sprang to pull Tokar from the path of the creatures.”