The Western Wizard (6 page)

“Why?” Colbey repeated with vexing calm.

The guard wore a bemused expression somewhere between shock and horror. His cheeks looked aflame. “Because. Because that’s what you call him.”

Colbey saw no reason to further antagonize the sentry,
aside from a mild curiosity about whether the man could become so enraged that he ruptured the vessels in his face. “Sire,” he added, the belated title lost beneath the king’s next words, which was just as well. Frustrated at being drawn from his prayers for matters that held no interest for him, Colbey had muttered the word with a disgust that even his melodious Northern accent could not soften.

“As commander of my troops, you will, of course, see that any rebellion Bacshas might instigate is quickly laid to rest.”

“Bacshas is your cousin,” Colbey guessed.

The Pudarian guardsman’s face flared to purple. As he opened his mouth, Colbey said simultaneously, “Sire.”

Santagithi uncrossed his legs, sitting straight in his chair. He seemed as interested in the exchange as the prince.

“Yes,” Verrall confirmed. “Bacshas is my cousin.”

“Thank you for the opportunity, Sire,” Colbey said politely. “But I’m not interested.”

The room quieted.

The prince seemed to have difficulty finding words. “You would not put down a Bacshas-backed rebellion?”

“No, Sire.”

The hush deepened. Even the rare click of the guards’ armor disappeared.

Prince Verrall’s features flushed, nearly to the color of his sentry’s. He leaned forward in his chair. “General, are you aware your words are treasonous?”

The hands of the prince’s guards inched toward their sword hilts. This did not escape Colbey’s notice, nor did he miss the growing expressions of fear on several faces. All of Verrall’s men had seen Colbey in battle.

Colbey remained calm, seeing no significant threat from only a dozen Pudarian soldiers. “Sire, I admit that the Trading tongue is not my first language, but I believe I do know the definition of treason. I’ve not raised a hand against you. Surely, there’s nothing treasonous about resigning my command.”

The sentries fidgeted. Santagithi sat with the mug clasped between his palms; he had not yet taken a single
sip. The prince looked stricken. “So you would resign your command and lead Bacshas’ forces against me?”

“No.” Colbey corrected the misconception. “I am resigning my command so I can go to Santagithi’s Town. Pudar’s politics are not my concern.”

A glimmer of hope appeared on Verrall’s face. “You’re not going to back my cousin?”

“No.” Colbey glared at his Pudarian escort, pronouncing the next word distinctly for his benefit. “Sire.”

“Then you will back me.”

“No.”

The prince lapsed into a frustrated silence. Though bored and impatient to return to his practice, Colbey waited to be dismissed.

“Why not?” Verrall asked, at length.

Colbey glanced at each of the dozen guards in turn. Not one held his gaze. This time, the Renshai thought it best to begin with the title of respect. “Sire, I’ve already told you I plan to return to Santagithi’s Town with him.”

The prince leaned forward, guarded hope again showing in his bearing. “Santagithi and his soldiers would be shown the hospitality due visiting dignitaries. They’ve been away from home several months already. A week or two, even a month or two, longer won’t make much difference. And the trading city will give them a well-deserved vacation and a place to buy presents for their wives and families.” He glanced in Santagithi’s direction as if to confirm the invitation. It had become common knowledge that, when Santagithi sent his yearly trading party to Pudar, the guards clamored for the opportunity to go.

Santagithi continued to cradle his drink. Apparently not wishing to interfere with Colbey’s decision nor insult Prince Verrall, he gave only a brief, noncommittal nod.

Colbey ignored the nonverbal communication. “With all respect, Sire, that’s not the issue.”

“And the issue is?” Verrall encouraged. Thick brows arched over dark eyes, smoothing the middle-aged features.

“That I’m not involving myself in Pudar’s politics. May I go now, Sire?” Colbey clamped the sentences together
so quickly, it took the remainder of the men in the tent a moment to recognize his sudden shift of topic.

“No.” Prince Verrall made a crisp gesture to his men. The two nearest Colbey shifted inconspicuously behind him to block the exit.

Colbey followed the men’s passage by sound. Until they drew weapons, they would prove no danger to him. He left their presence and movements to his subconscious, which had already processed and chronicled the skill of each soldier by his stance and his gait.

“Colbey, I’m no fool . . .”

Colbey stared in stony silence, believing that any man who needed to say such a thing obviously was precisely that which he denied.

“. . . you’re a Northman fighting for the West. Obviously, politics alone don’t concern you. You willingly pledged yourself to my uncle. I’m his heir. Why do you refuse me?”

Colbey lowered his head in consideration, but found no words to soften the blow. “Sire, it would be best if I didn’t say.”

“But you will.”

“Will I?”

“I think we would both find it preferable to sitting here staring at one another all night.”

Colbey frowned. What kept him in the prince’s tent was not force or threat of violence, but protocol. He considered leaving, aware he could probably move quickly enough to forestall any immediate retaliation. But Santagithi had more ground to cover, and it seemed unfair to put a friend in danger in the name of simple defiance. Besides, Colbey had just committed the Renshai to finding allies and to a future as swordsmen for hire. Antagonizing the king of the Westlands’ largest city did not seem prudent, yet Colbey saw no way to avoid it.

Unwilling to lie, Colbey ran the risk of offending with words or with silence, and he chose the former, hoping that it would save time and that the prince would remember he had pressed Colbey to speak. “Sire, if you don’t have the power to claim your throne without me, what makes you think you can keep it after I’m gone?”

The guards exchanged nervous glances. Santagithi frowned, suddenly intent on the conversation.

Prince Verrall recoiled as if struck. Then his features creased in outrage. “You think I’m weak.”

Having spoken freely, Colbey saw no reason to back down now. “I’ve seen you fight. You’re not King Gasir.”

“You think I’m weak?” The prince seemed locked on the phrase.

Though he had little experience with smoothing strained relations, Colbey tried. “I don’t mean to be offensive. It’s probably just my upbringing. Northmen revere heroes. Kings nearly always serve as their own generals. Those who don’t run the risk of losing their followers to their generals. It’s not malicious,” Colbey added quickly. “It’s just that good people tend to reward competence, in war and in leadership.”

Colbey paused, distracted by a realization that he had never before considered. The Northmen were, by definition, the followers of good and the Easterners followers of evil. Yet though their motivations always clashed, often the end results were similar. The Eastern cities banded beneath a single king who, if not a skilled warrior as well as a powerful presence, could lose his throne to a stronger soldier. Self-motivated, the Renshai had paid little attention to the divisions. And though a tent in the Westlands seemed an odd place to consider philosophy, Colbey could not help noting that pure good and evil, like genius and madness, might prove so opposite as to become too alike.

Prince Verrall pounded a fist on the arm of his chair. “And you? I imagine you believe you would be powerful enough to rule Pudar.”

Colbey hesitated, the concept so foreign he had never considered it. The answer was obvious. “Certainly, Sire. But I have no inter—”

“You arrogant
wisule!
” Verrall leapt to his feet, using the vilest insult Colbey knew. By calling him after a rodent so skittish it would abandon its young rather than face a threat, the prince had accused Colbey of cowardice. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

Even had Colbey deigned to grace the rhetorical question
with an answer, the prince did not give him the opportunity.

“You speak of might. You talk about generals usurping kings. You won’t support the rightful heir to Pudar, nor even his conniving cousin. Clearly, what you plan
is
treason! You want the throne for yourself!”

The accusation seemed too ridiculous to answer. Tossing his hands in exasperation, Colbey turned to leave. Even as he moved, he caught a glimpse of the prince beginning a gesture to his guards. His other hand fell to the hilt of his sword.

Colbey spun back to face the threat.

Santagithi hurled the contents of his mug. Wine splattered over the Prince of Pudar, staining his silks and leathers. Purple droplets wound across features that went nearly as dark. His hand whipped from his hilt, waving in flustered outrage. Sputtering, he turned on Santagithi. “Why? How dare. . . !” Apparently remembering he was addressing a man with as high a rank as himself, he kept accusation from his voice. “Why?”

The guards formed a circle around Colbey, but they kept their distance and did not pull weapons.

Santagithi stood, large and dangerous even when compared to a tent full of soldiers. His voice sounded more booming than usual in the stunned hush that fell over Verrall’s warriors. “I apologize for the soaking, but I found it necessary to rescue a dozen innocent men from death, and you, too.”

“From death?” Verrall shook off wine by snapping his arms through the air. “What death?”

Colbey folded his arms across his chest, awaiting Santagithi’s explanation with bland curiosity. Around him the guards squirmed, obviously unnerved by his casual disinterest in them.

“If anyone in this tent had drawn a weapon, Colbey would have had no choice but to take it from him. I doubt he would have sheathed his unblooded.” Santagithi’s level tone surely did more to dispel tension than his words.

But Verrall took offense. “So you think I’m weak, too.”

“No.” Though he addressed the prince, Santagithi’s
attention strayed to the soldiers as he assessed a threat Colbey had naturally considered from the moment he had entered the tent. “I’m not a Northman. I can see strengths Colbey would never understand. What you lack in sword skill, you make up in wisdom and diplomacy. And I know you’re shrewd enough to realize that nothing good could come of attacking the hero of the Great War.”

The prince’s eyes narrowed. Wine dribbled to the floor, leaving purple rings on the dirt as Verrall sought the words to end the conflict and still keep face.

Colbey remained silent, allowing Verrall the courtesy of space and time. Santagithi also said nothing, presumably for similar reasons.

At last, Prince Verrall spoke, “Very well. Colbey, you’re dismissed. As to you,” he sat, twisting his head toward Santagithi. “I want you to gather your men and head home. I don’t want you or your people in my city.”

Santagithi grimaced. Knowing the cause, Colbey tried to explain without sounding as if he was undermining the prince’s decision. “Sire, we’ll be gone as soon as we can. But Santagithi’s baby grandson is in your city. Surely, you’ll let us retrieve him before we leave.”

The pause that followed seemed to span eternities. Until now, Colbey had tried to avoid violence. But the idea that Verrall might try to prevent him from gathering one of the three remaining Renshai raised his ire. For this cause, Colbey would fight until either he or every last Pudarian lay dead.

“Very well,” Prince Verrall said calmly, though runnels of wine stole all dignity from his bearing. He strode the fine line between compromise and surrender. The first would make him seem a diplomat, the second as weak as Colbey had implied. “But Santagithi’s army stays outside the walls. And you stay only long enough to get the child. If you cause any disturbances, I will see you punished to the fullest extent of the law.”

Santagithi pursed his lips, unaccustomed to allowing others to speak to him in this fashion. Still, for the sake of peace, he allowed the pronouncement to go unchallenged. “It will be as you say.” He threaded past the guards to Colbey’s side. “Let’s go.”

Nodding, Colbey turned to leave.

The prince called after him. “Oh, and General.”

Colbey and Santagithi both looked back.

“Colbey, you’re relieved of your command as of this moment. I can lead my own forces, thank you.”

Colbey nodded once, barely managing to make it through the tent flap without grinning. He whispered to Santagithi. “With such leadership, let the Pudarian army hope that we meet no enemies en route.”

Santagithi’s answering laugh was strained.

Weeks later, the fields just outside the walled city of Pudar became a crowded chaos of jubilant soldiers and civilians. Wives and children clutched husbands and fathers in grips that seemed unyielding, tear-streaked faces buried in war- and travel-stained leather. Others wove frantically through the masses, seeking one face among four thousand soldiers, while a few stood in huddled misery, knowing they would never see a loved one again. Among so many, these last seemed terribly alone.

Arduwyn paused just outside the open bronze gates, unable to take another step. The strings of his eyepatch crushed his spiky red hair in crisscrossing lines. His bow lay slung across one shoulder. His quiver held half a dozen arrows, each crafted on the return trip, and each decorated with his crest: two gold rings and one of royal blue. He studied the crowd through his single dark eye. Hope blurred every woman to the plump, beautiful shape of his wife, Bel. Every child seemed to be one of the three she had borne her first husband who had also been Arduwyn’s closest friend, children who had become the little hunter’s own by right of marriage. Yet, clearly, Bel had not come.

Grief crushed Arduwyn, and he clutched the irregular blocks of stone composing Pudar’s wall. For hours he stood, watching couples and families sort from the hubbub and disappear through the gates. Some of the citizens slunk back into the confines, empty-handed. Yet no soldier returned alone. No soldier except Arduwyn.