The Western Wizard (66 page)

“She’s beautiful,” Mitrian said. “How are the other three?”

Bel replied. “Jani, the oldest, lives in town with her husband.” Her eyes misted, and she could not go on.

Arduwyn cringed, obviously upset by Bel’s suffering. He placed an arm around her. “I’m afraid we lost Effer and Rusha to illness.”

Mitrian spoke trite sympathies that only made the situation seem more awkward to Colbey. To his relief, the doors opened, and a well-dressed staff carried in a table and enough chairs for everyone present.

“We eat,” Sterrane said.

One arm around his wife, the other on his daughter’s arm, Arduwyn led his family to the table. Rache sprinted across the room to claim the seat beside Sylva. One step ahead, Tannin pulled out the chair to seat himself, and Rache crashed to the floor.

Every eye, including Sylva’s, turned toward him.

Rache sprang to his feet, desperately trying to salvage his dignity. “Your floor’s wet,” he mumbled, glowering at his companion. Seeing that Bel had already sat in the chair to Sylva’s left, and Arduwyn had settled next to his wife, Rache circled the table, taking a seat directly across from the center of his interest.

Sterrane left an empty chair between himself and Arduwyn,
that Baran took, and Mar Lon sat at the king’s opposite hand. Aware his presence unsettled the bard, Colbey intentionally took a seat beside him. Already, he had tired of amenities, eager to discuss the hostages, and even the boys’ antics for Sylva’s attention ceased to amuse him. Korgar sat by Colbey, Shadimar beside the barbarian, and Mitrian and Garn took the last two seats, between Tannin and the Eastern Wizard. As usual, Secodon slipped beneath the table.

As a pair of Béarnides set a bowl of soup before each of the diners, Mitrian continued to make polite conversation. “I thought you had a wife, too, Sterrane. Won’t she join us?”

Sterrane swallowed a mouthful of soup and shook his head. “One come, all want come.”

Mitrian sat, perplexed.

Colbey laughed. “How many wives do you have?”

The king shrugged. “Twelve. Thirteen. Lots children.” He smiled happily at his last statement. “Lots wonderful children. What happen you? How you come here?” Sterrane steered his last query to Colbey, “You really knight?”

“Yes,” Colbey admitted, surprised that Sterrane had not already received a message from Erythane regarding the matter. Surely, King Orlis kept the high king abreast of his knights. “Due to a truly unusual set of circumstances.” He did not bother to explain further and left the remainder of Sterrane’s questions to his companions.

When no one else took the king’s offer, Mitrian told their tale as they ate. She spoke with an insight occasionally checked by horrified reluctance, particularly when she talked of Santagithi’s and Episte’s deaths and the state in which they had discovered Colbey at Shadimar’s ruins. When she finished, well into the meal, she seemed calmer for the telling.

A respectful silence followed in the wake of Mitrian’s story. Though he knew it was rude, Colbey took this moment to raise their dilemma. “Arduwyn, we need a guide who knows the forests of Erythane. Are you for hire?”

“I’ll do what I can to help friends.” The little archer
seemed pleased by Colbey’s request. “I know those forests as well as a man can.”

Abruptly, Bel shoved her chair from the table. “Excuse me.” She swept down the gold carpet and out the huge portals before anyone thought to stop her.

There was no overt hostility in her words or actions, but Colbey perceived a rage that belied her apparent calm.

Mitrian must have sensed something, too, because she rose. “Excuse me,” she echoed softly and chased after Bel.

When Mitrian burst through the great doors of Béarn’s courtroom, she met a cluster of guards with worried faces milling in the hallway. Some watched her curiously, others started down the corridor that Bel had presumably taken. No one tried to stop Mitrian, and for that she was grateful. She ran in the indicated direction. Turning a corner, she spotted Bel. Slowing to a fast walk, Mitrian pulled up beside her.

“Go away.” Bel continued striding through the grand hallway.

“Let’s talk.” Mitrian chose a door at random. Opening it, she ushered Bel into a sparsely-furnished single room. It contained only a bed, a cedar chest, and a desk. Currently, a man sat, writing, at the desk. Dressed in tailored linens with gold trim, he stared at the intruders.

“Get out.” Mitrian jerked a hand toward the door. She glared directly at the Béarnide.

“What?” the man said. The pen fell from his fingers, clattering to the desktop.

“Get out. We need to talk.” Mitrian added in afterthought, “Please.”

Bel fidgeted, looking around Mitrian toward the open door.

The man rose, studied the women, then perched on the edge of his chair. “This is my room.”

“Leave!” screamed Mitrian.

Grumbling something unintelligible in Béarnese, the man escaped his room. Mitrian stepped aside to let him leave, then blocked Bel’s escape again.

Bel dropped into the vacated chair. “I hate you.”

Mitrian closed the door. “I thought we were friends.”

“We’re not.” Bel glared sharply. “Friends wouldn’t do what you did to me.”

“I don’t understand.” Mitrian tried to think of something she might have said or done to offend Bel. She had introduced all of her companions, complimented Bel’s daughter, and told her story with all of the sensitivity she could muster. “What did I do?”

Bel slammed a fist to the desktop, sending the man’s papers wafting. The pen rolled to the floor. “For twelve years, Arduwyn has stayed by my side and with his child, without you to drag him into danger.”

Bel’s accusations raised Mitrian’s ire, and she did not consider her words carefully. “Ardy never needed dragging.”

Bel looked away, tracing the edge of the desk with a finger. “I know. He still wanders into the woods, but he’s always home at night, and he usually takes Sylva with him.” Her gaze met Mitrian’s accusingly, then she turned away. “He’s taught her to hunt. Game, not men.” She buried her face in her arms on the desktop.

Mitrian collected the fallen pen and parchments and returned them to the desktop. “We only want him as a guide for a few days. We’ll send him home. We could have used him to help get Sterrane’s kingdom back; but we sent him home after the war, didn’t we?”

Bel’s face flared crimson, and she raised it to confront Mitrian. “You returned him without an eye. Will he come back blind this time? Crippled? Or maybe you won’t return him at all.”

“Bel!” Mitrian tried to cut through the nonsense, but Bel’s real concern came through next.

“Did you see how excited he looked? How do I know the forest of his childhood won’t offer him more than I can?”

Mitrian planted both hands on the desk, rage stripped from her by the root of Bel’s concern. “If the forest could take him from you, he would have left long ago.”

Bel’s dark eyes went ugly with hatred. “Arduwyn is a hunter, not a soldier. He can’t fight Northmen.” She added spitefully, “And keep your
kadlach
away from my daughter.”

The insult caught Mitrian by surprise. “I thought you liked Rache.”

“I loved the boy when he was Kinesthe. I won’t subject Sylva to the tortures I suffered because my man wandered. Do you know what it’s like to love a man who leaves you with nothing, not even the promise of a safe return? Do you know what it’s like wondering if he’s alive or dead or if he just decided he loves the forest more?” Tears welled in her eyes. “Have you ever waited alone with three children and no money to feed them, hoping desperately your man will return to save you from starvation, ridicule, and strangers who would beat and rob or rape you?”

There was a long silence.

Mitrian sat on the corner of the desk. “Sylva could travel with her man, as could you, Bel. My man
is
a wanderer, but I chose to wander with him.”

“And you can.” Bel spat out her words like a bite of sour fruit. “You’re every bit as savage, and you use a sword. My daughter or I would die. Keep your son and that brutish-looking Northman away from Sylva. And I’m not going to let you take Arduwyn, either.”

Mitrian had tired of the insults, her patience gone. “We need Arduwyn. And whether he comes or not is his decision.”

“Then I’ll have to help him make that decision.” Bel rose daintily, though her tone and words did not match the delicacy of her action. “And you can go to Hel!” Dodging past Mitrian, she stormed out the door.

*  *  *

After the feast in Béarn’s great hall, Garn followed Baran through the castle’s gaudy corridors in silence. From the captain’s first troubled, knowing glance, Garn had known the Béarnide wished to speak with him. The whispered promise of a meeting while in Sterrane’s court had only confirmed it. Whatever Baran’s concern, it unnerved him; and Garn could not fathom a topic better discussed with himself than with Mar Lon, Sterrane, Shadimar, or Colbey.

Baran did not take Garn far. Only a few rooms down from the main courtroom, he halted at a half-opened door, ushering Garn through before him.

Garn stepped into a study, its four walls enveloped by a continuous fresco of two regal, richly-armored men riding white horses and jousting with pikes. A crowd surrounded the combatants. Some shouted or waved their arms encouragingly. Others leaned over a wood and wire fence, enthralled. One young woman kept her eyes closed, her fists cocked and clenched before her, as if horrified by the spectacle. A nearby child crouched, back partially turned, more intrigued by gathering stones than watching the battle. Though bloodless, stylized, and garishly colorful, the scene brought vague reminders of the gladiator pit, and Garn turned his attention to the room’s furnishings instead. A padded seat filled the ledge of an arching window; its thick glass magnified his view of the courtyard below. A desk occupied a corner near the door, an unlit lantern on its surface, a matching chair turned askew to face the window seat. On the desk’s legs and trim, carved flowers entwined, and a similar pattern decorated the arms and back slats of the chair.

Baran followed Garn inside, pressing the door closed behind him until it clicked fully into place. He waved toward the seats.

Garn chose the window seat. Curiosity kept him perched on its edge.

Baran folded one leg onto the desk chair, but he did not sit. Instead, he pulled a creased piece of parchment from his tunic pocket and tossed it into Garn’s lap. “Look at this.”

Obligingly, Garn opened the parchment. Ink strokes scored the surface in straight, regular lines from top to bottom. Illiterate, Garn stared at the note, saying nothing.

“What do you think?” Baran leaned forward, obviously eager for Garn’s opinion.

Lacking a better reply, Garn handed the message back. “Neat penmanship.”

“Neat penmanship?” Baran’s eyes widened, and all of the wrinkles disappeared from his forehead. “Didn’t you. . . ?” Apparently, the significance of Garn’s answer dawned on him, and he explained without further questioning. “It’s from the leader of the Erythanian knights. It talks about Brignar’s death and Colbey’s instatement.”

Garn nodded politely. Colbey had told them the story, and it hardly seemed like a matter to send the Béarnian captain of the guards into a clandestine meeting with a foreign soldier. The overall strangeness of Baran’s behavior struck Garn now. From Sterrane’s and Mar Lon’s reactions to Colbey’s teasing, neither had read this message, though Baran must have received it before their arrival in the court. Piqued by the oddity, Garn guessed at the only possible reason. “There’s something else in that note. Isn’t there?”

Surprised by Garn’s insight, Baran dropped into his chair. He passed the parchment from hand to hand, turning it in circles as he did so, obviously uncomfortable. “They’ve got Rathelon in custody. They want to extradite him to Béarn.”

That sounded like wonderful news to Garn, and he could not fathom Baran’s problem. “Great! Caught at last.” The most recent rumors had revealed most of Rathelon’s supporters imprisoned, dead, or driven away. True to the terms of his banishment, Rathelon had not directly set foot on Béarnese soil for the last twelve years. “Your troubles with him are finally over.”

Baran seemed not to hear Garn’s reply. “There was a battle. Archers took down all of Rathelon’s men. But they captured him alive.”

The seriousness of Baran’s tone sobered Garn, and he looked for the flaw in reasoning that had allowed him to miss the captain’s concern. “What happens now?”

“Rathelon’s ours to bring to trial in Béarn.”

Garn nodded in understanding, still positive he was overlooking something. “Isn’t that good news?”

Baran slid his leg from beneath his buttocks and sat in the chair properly. Continuously, he refolded and unfolded the parchment. “Knowing the king of Béarn, how do you think he’ll sentence his cousin?”

“Knowing Sterrane . . .” Garn repeated as he considered. “. . . surely he’d. . . .” When the answer did not come at once, his brow furrowed, and he dropped the thread of his sentence.

“I’ve seen traitors and war criminals paraded before the king’s justice for twelve years now. No matter the crime, I’ve yet to see Sterrane sentence one to death.”

Garn finished the thought. “And you think that’s the sentence Rathelon should get?”

Baran stiffened suddenly, as if he feared he had chosen his confidant wrongly. “Don’t you?”

“Hell, I told you that the first time. You’re the one who didn’t want to second-guess the king.”

“Right.” Apparently reminded of the coronation, Baran emitted a short, tight-lipped laugh that seemed more like a grunt.

A horrible idea came to Garn. “You don’t think Sterrane would banish Rathelon again? Do you? Wouldn’t that just start this whole mess over again?”

“Imprisonment, more likely.” Baran sighed, saying nothing more.

Garn still did not understand why the captain of Béarn had confided in him. He waited, certain that, given time, Baran would reveal his motives.

Baran returned the note to his pocket. For some time, he fidgeted in silence. His obvious pain made Garn cringe in sympathy, but he did not yet have enough information to make the captain’s lot easier.