The Western Wizard (32 page)

Santagithi waited until the door banged closed behind them before confronting Jakot. “Find Shadimar and tell him to meet me in the strategy room at once. Alone.”

“Yes, sir.” Jakot prepared to leave, but Santagithi beckoned him close. Obediently, Jakot approached.

Santagithi lowered his voice to a whisper. “See to it Colbey and the Vikerian don’t see one another.”

Jakot’s brows rose in question, but he did not speak. When Santagithi did not clarify his odd request, Jakot did not press. With a shrug, he headed for the exit.

Santagithi allowed anger to swarm down on him. That the Northmen would still hold a grudge against the Renshai for events that had occurred decades ago made them seem ridiculously petty. But the idea of an ally trying to dictate who could live in Santagithi’s citadel enraged him. Despite the flowery wording, Santagithi sensed threat beneath Tenja’s request, and he knew without the need to consider that it would leave no room for discussion or compromise. Waiting long enough for the messenger to pass well beyond sight, Santagithi stormed from his court, hearing the guards erupt into whispers behind him. He slammed the door closed.

It would serve the bastards right if I did give them
Colbey
. Still clutching the message and its container, Santagithi stomped down the corridor toward the entrance to his citadel.
At the head of a legion of my finest.
Although the image of Vikerin razed and Tenja fleeing, half-naked, through the snow seemed pleasant now, Santagithi would never react in his current mood. And he saw the danger in any action but compliance.
Tenja will settle for nothing short of Colbey’s life. If I refuse him, there will be a war. We may be able to best Vikerin, but we can’t vanquish the entire Northlands
.

Outrage gave way to brooding. Santagithi left through the front door, carefully closing the thick, oak panel. The autumn breeze felt unseasonably cold against his flushed skin. A group of guardsmen practiced pole arm maneuvers in the grass. In the distance, Santagithi could hear the thunk of arrows hitting the rotting stumps the archers used as targets. He ignored the sounds, passing the sparring guards with a grunted greeting. He tore open the door to the guards’ quarters with a violence that loosened the hinges, then let it crash shut behind him.

Voices echoed along the hallway. A door opened to Santagithi’s left, and a guard stood framed in the doorway. Startled to find Santagithi so close, he hesitated before opening his mouth. By the time he prepared to call a greeting, Santagithi had passed beyond the range of anything short of a shout.

Within a dozen strides, Santagithi came upon the door to the room that had once belonged to Rache and Nantel. As always, he stopped. More than a year had passed since he had bothered to open the door. This time, he felt an urge to go inside, and the need to wait for Kloras to deliver his message and for Shadimar to arrive supported the decision. Without hesitation he entered, using his foot to snap the door closed behind him.

Most of the objects Santagithi found belonged to Nantel. After his crippling, Rache had been moved to a cottage in the village, to recover under Emerald’s care. The main room held a table with two chairs. A hearth formed an opening in one wall, an empty pot swinging from the spit. Cupboards filled the area above and to either side of the fireplace, the rancid odor wafting from them convincing Santagithi that the time had come to clean the
room. An old keg sat near the doorway into the second room. A layer of dust covered the table. Through it, Santagithi could see a wine stain. A crack spidered along the upper surface of oak, a remnant from an angry blow with a sword hilt or a heavy mug, almost certainly Nantel’s work. The archer captain had always had a volatile temper.

A pair of carefully hammered nails supported the hilt of a sword and a hand’s length of broken blade. Santagithi crossed the room to examine the odd decoration. Brown blood still etched the crack where the blade met the crosspiece. A curled shred of parchment balanced on the hilt, words scrawled across the surface in Rache’s fine hand: “Why Nantel will let Rache choose his swords from this day forth.”

The familiarity of the writing and the choice of words cut through Santagithi’s rage, allowing bittersweet memory in. Clearly, Nantel’s sword had broken because he had bought an inferior weapon, at least in Rache’s opinion. Santagithi remembered the blacksmith’s complaints that it cost him three times more in materials and time than he got paid to craft swords that met Rache’s demanding specifications. Santagithi pictured his young sword master, his golden hair flying, since he had always refused the helmet his rank accorded him. The black jerkin he wore instead of the officers’ mail had become more familiar and right than the routine black and silver uniforms of the remainder of the army. An emptiness filled Santagithi. Though years had passed, he could not suppress a tear. He thought of the respect Rache had always held for the greatest of all sword masters, Colbey, the man who had trained him as a child. Over the years, Rache had become as much a son to Santagithi as Mitrian was his daughter.
I can’t do anything more for Rache, except to keep true to his memory. I will not betray his teacher
.

Santagithi rubbed away the tear dribbling across his cheek, holding back the ones that tried to follow. Turning, he left the room. He closed the door and continued toward the strategy chamber.

When Santagithi entered, he found Shadimar sitting in one of the ten high-backed chairs set around the table.
Flicking the door closed, Santagithi passed his usual seat at the head of the table, choosing one beside the Wizard. He tossed the Vikerian’s message in front of Shadimar before he could speak. “Read this.” Santagithi sat.

Shadimar uncurled the parchment and read. Long after he must have finished, he stared at the page, thinking or rereading.

Santagithi’s fists clenched while he waited.

At length, Shadimar rerolled the message. “Santagithi, you have a decision to make.” He offered no counsel.

Nor did Santagithi request any. “I wish I did have a decision. But I’m afraid King Tenja made it for me when he wrote this letter. I won’t give him Colbey. Even if I were base enough to betray a friend, how long would it be before the Northmen demanded my daughter, Rache’s son, and my grandson?” He met Shadimar’s stony eyes. “I’ll send every Northman to their Hel by my own hand before I’ll turn over my family.” He slammed his fist on the tabletop, the blow quivering through fingers that, clenched too long, had fallen asleep.

“You still have a decision.” Shadimar stroked his beard, his voice calm despite Santagithi’s pounding. “How will you answer King Tenja’s letter? I suggest you choose your words with care.”

Santagithi slid back his chair.

“You could still avoid a war.”

Santagithi rose, head shaking. “I’m afraid that, at this juncture, I can do little more than delay it. Unless you have the words I can’t seem to find.”

“I’m afraid I don’t.” Shadimar’s gaze followed Santagithi’s movement. “But I don’t think I have to tell the West’s prime strategist that, as much as Northmen war against one another, when one tribe fights an outside enemy, they all band together. If you start a war, you will not fight Vikerin. You will fight the Northlands.”

Santagithi walked to his seat at the head of the table. Opening a drawer in the table that he knew well, he withdrew several sheets of parchment, a quill, a bottle of ink, and sealing wax. Closing the drawer, he sat in his usual seat. Nothing the Wizard had said came as a surprise to him.

“You have no nearby allies. I’m afraid the armies of the civilized West may not help you. I heard things that make me believe that the new king in Pudar doesn’t like Colbey. Or you, for that matter.”

Santagithi’s elbows bored into the tabletop, and he wished Colbey’s audience in Prince Verrall’s tent had progressed more smoothly.

“I believe Sterrane would assist you. But his kingdom is at the exact opposite end of the Westlands. It would take months for you to send a message and many more for him to send an army. And I believe he’ll find himself beset with troubles of his own.”

“As a new king restoring an old line, he may still have his own battles to fight.” Santagithi took the quill in hand. “I understand that.”

“There is one other thing to consider.” The Eastern Wizard paused for some time.

Santagithi turned his gaze, as well as his attention to Shadimar.

“Colbey is old. And he would love to die fighting Northmen. If you showed this note to him, he might make the decision to leave. Surely, King Tenja could not hold it against you if Colbey attacked on his own initiative.”

“No!” Santagithi refused to consider such an option. “Colbey came to me to give him a safe place to train his people. Right or wrong, directly or indirectly, every one of his people is related to me. And I still believe that, after Colbey’s death, the Northmen will come for Mitrian and the boys. The Renshai need Colbey to teach them to defend themselves against Northmen.” He tapped the quill against the parchment, considering. “I can’t let myself or this town get bullied by Northmen holding a stupid grudge that lost pertinence long ago.” Without awaiting a reply, Santagithi wrote:

Santagithi passed the note to Shadimar, waiting while the Eastern Wizard perused it. “And I believe Colbey deserves to be treated as any trusted friend.” He added, “Would you translate to Northern?”

“Of course.” Shadimar nodded. “I don’t envy your position. If it makes you feel any better, I believe your stand is sound and honorable, though it may kill you. I hope things go well.”

Santagithi picked up the ink, parchment, and sealing wax, carrying them to Shadimar. “I only ask that you don’t mention Tenja’s letter to anyone. Especially not to Colbey.”

“I will do as you ask.” Shadimar smoothed a blank piece of parchment on the tabletop. “When I’m finished rewriting, I have to go home. I have business to attend. I can’t help you in battle; but if you send for me, I will come.”

“Thank you.” Santagithi’s gaze played over the many maps that papered his walls, coming to rest on the area north of the Granite Hills. The few passes through the miniature but rugged mountains gave him a million ideas for strategy. And he hoped he would need to use none of them.

Rain spilled from the autumn sky, drummed against the canopy of leaves, and dribbled into the practice clearing. Droplets trickled clumps of gold-white hair into Colbey’s face, plastering it to his cheeks and forehead, but he paid this discomfort no heed. His attention remained on his three students and the maneuvers he had given each one. Mitrian performed long, intricate katas with a smoothness and skill that proved she had drilled in her absence. Rache kept his sword sheathed, repeating a dodge that formed the basis for one of the first Renshai maneuvers. Episte executed a choreographed strike with a grace that made it seem as if the move had been created for him.

Colbey smiled, pleasure spiraling through him, certain that this mixed band could form a tribe. Each had his or her own strengths, and each would bring his talent to the reformation of the Renshai. Mitrian knew a dedication and agility few could match. Rache threw his all into every lesson, needing to oblige his
torke
with the same exuberance as the original Renshai. Episte had talents that came so easily and naturally that, even when the boys became old enough that the two years between them made little difference, Episte would always remain a step ahead of Rache. Colbey hoped Rache’s determination would stimulate him to work even harder to try to best his near-sibling. Perhaps the competitive spirit would touch even Episte.

Damp tinged the air, keeping the clearing close but cool. Episte performed another perfect sequence, then sheathed his sword. He headed for a deadfall at the clearing’s edge.

Surprised by the boy’s bold defiance, Colbey stepped
directly into Episte’s path. “Where are you going?” He used the Renshai tongue.

Episte looked up at his teacher, yellow hair falling into his eyes, the rivulets twining across his face mingling rain and sweat. “There.” He pointed to the log.

“Have you performed
hastivillr
a million times?”

“At least,
torke.
” Episte sounded sincere. “Maybe two million.” He pawed hair from his face.

To Colbey’s count, it was closer to ten, but he did believe the child needed to move on to something more difficult. “Then I will teach you another.”

“In a little while,
torke
.”

Colbey did not give ground. Endurance was as much a part of his teachings as swiftness and strength. “Now.”

“No!” Episte stomped his foot. His voice turned to a whine, and he slipped back into the Western trading language. “I practiced five million billion times and—”

Colbey cut him off. “Use Renshai.”

Episte’s speech slowed. “I’m sleep almost. And not thirsty. Too not thirsty. The day is rabbit.”

“Stop.” Colbey remained between Episte and the log, trying to meet the child’s eyes. Though on the shorter side of average, Colbey stood twice the boy’s height. “You’re not making sense. Slow down. Tell me what you’re trying to say, and I’ll translate for you.”

Episte whined. “I’m tired. I want to rest. I’m cold and wet.”

Enraged by the child’s complaints, Colbey snapped his mouth closed.

Episte glanced up, studied the anger on Colbey’s face, and returned his gaze to his feet.

Colbey spoke slowly, emphasizing each word, though he kept his voice too soft for the others to hear. “I will not translate that into Renshai, because no Renshai would say such a thing.” He studied the boy’s tiny hands, already a man’s fist, scarred with calluses. “Is this what you would tell your enemies?” He simulated Episte’s whimpering. “I can’t fight back anymore because it’s raining and I’m tired.”