The Western Wizard (78 page)

Colbey stared off to the east, having his own debts to claim. Somehow, he would find the vicious, moral-lacking Northman he believed was Carcophan’s champion, no matter on whose side any Cardinal Wizard stood. And the Renshai, as a tribe, would triumph or die.

*  *  *

Shadimar leaned against a crumbling archway in the ruins of Myrcidë. A line of stone gargoyles, green with moss, adorned the opening that had once served as a doorway, and the beak of one gouged painlessly into Shadimar’s hip. Secodon snuffled at the blueberry bushes, springing into surprised retreat whenever his exploration sent songbirds into flight. Swiftwing perched at Shadimar’s
eye level, on a gargoyle’s serrated wing, patiently awaiting some command from the Eastern Wizard.

Shadimar stared through the archway until the rain seemed to coalesce into wires of slanted silver, broken occasionally by the golden flash of lightning. Six times, he had sent the Cardinal Wizards’ messenger to locate Carcophan; and six times the red falcon had returned, still bearing Shadimar’s dispatch.

Where is Carcophan?
Shadimar had asked himself the question too many times to expect an answer to come this time. He had tried every location that seemed possible or plausible, and others besides, even sending Swiftwing on a month-long sweep of the Eastlands that could have ousted a mouse from dense woodlands. There could be only two possibilities for Swiftwing’s failure: Carcophan had gone into hiding or he was dead, too.

Shadimar traced the features of one of the grimacing, granite faces with his finger, driven to restlessness by the prospect. His collective consciousness gave him numerous examples of Wizards who, ensconced in intensive research, rescribing texts, or intimate strategies, had passed decades, or even a century, in solitude. One of the Western Wizards had spoken to his colleagues only once over the entire course of his reign. Shadimar knew that, during his own recent years in the Western Wizard’s cave, his peers probably could not have found him either. The wards on the cave would have thwarted an undirected search, and they would not have expected him to intrude on another Wizard’s person or property.

Still, though Shadimar found precedent, Carcophan had always proven the least patient of the Cardinal Wizards. Quiet solutions and seclusion were not usually his way, and the Western Wizard’s unexpected passing trebled Shadimar’s concern for the Evil One. One thing seemed certain. Until he discovered Carcophan’s fate and initiated the solution, he could not contact Trilless. Unopposed, she would usurp Carcophan’s followers, then Shadimar’s; she was too powerful for the least of the Wizards to stand against alone. The balance Shadimar had sworn to defend would fall, and good would lose all definition without evil to contrast it.

Swiftwing failed. I have to find Carcophan myself; and,
this time, I have the right and the means.
Shadimar knew he could not enter the Eastlands, Carcophan’s territory, uninvited, except in the presence of his own champion.
But Colbey is there.

The idea raised all of the frustration and confusion that had accompanied speculation about the old Renshai for years. Now, viewed from a different angle, the link that Shadimar had chased came freely to him, bringing a new insight. No single source seemed responsible for the fresh perspective, and no flash of genius heralded its arrival. Simply, the piece Shadimar had sought finally slid into place; and it was nothing new, just a distant theory long ago discarded and forgotten.

For several moments, Shadimar remained motionless, seeking the flaw that would crumble this notion as it had the others. Though it required faith, the certainty remained. If Carcophan had lost his soul to a demon or a Sword of Power, his destruction would inflict complications on the balance of power that made Tokar’s disappearance seem trivial, yet Shadimar could not help feeling glad that his message had never reached the Evil One. The fate of the Southern Wizard still concerned him desperately, but that of the Western Wizard no longer did.

Shadimar stripped the parchment from the falcon’s scaly leg. “Nothing more, Swiftwing. Thank you. Fly and beware the arrows of hunters.”

In response, Swiftwing unfurled red wings and sprang from perch to sky without need to gather momentum. It spiraled upward against the ceaseless pound of rain, growing ever smaller until it became a black dot against the murky sky.

Suddenly struck by the irony, Shadimar burst into laughter amid the rhythmic accompaniment of the storm. After so long, the lapse felt good.

Icy winds tore at the woolen cloaks of Arduwyn and the Western Renshai, but Colbey felt little discomfort in his linen tunic and breeks. At either side, Rache and Mitrian, too, seemed not to notice the winter gale, every line of their bodies sagging, their minds heavy with a grief that Colbey’s talent would not allow him to escape. Still, the enveloping cloud of emotion protected Colbey from his own somber thoughts. Within the week, he would turn seventy-seven, a year past the age that the oldest Renshai had lived and forty years older than any Renshai should become. The thought stabbed at Colbey, mingling with his companions’ sorrow, the latter so strong that it dwarfed Colbey’s own, personal sense of loss that accompanied Garn’s death.

Colbey thought of the last Renshai elder, now three decades dead. Episte’s namesake had lived in Nordmir, a spy to warn the Renshai of possible attacks against them. He had died of an aged heart, choosing to spend his last months training young Rache Kallmirsson rather than seeking out the battles that would allow him to die in glory and dwell in Valhalla. He had sold his ancient soul so that the one he believed the last Renshai could live and die as Renshai should. And like the Wizards, Siderin, and the demon Carcophan had questioned, old Episte had not realized that Colbey, too, had survived the slaughter that had all but ended the tribe of Renshai.

The forest thinned as the party walked their horses through one of the few remaining patches of Eastland woods. The thready deer path they followed joined a tightly curving trail, pitted with wheel ruts, hoof hollows, and foot tracks. Both directions led northeast, so Colbey chose at random. The others rode beside or behind
him, no one bothering to question his route. Mitrian and Rache festered in the depths of their grief, alternating between sadness and vengeful rage. The others whispered softly among themselves, deferring to their companions’ need for quiet.

Pondering age and the elder he had outlived, now in years as well as time, Colbey could not keep his thoughts from sliding to the younger Renshai who had borne the same name. Since the ancient Episte had died of illness rather than in the savage exchange of swordplay, his name should have died with him. Yet Emerald had called her child for his father’s mentor, ignorant of the conventions. Deeply mired in his religion, as well as its trappings, Colbey had to wonder if this lack of a guardian in Valhalla had doomed young Episte from the start.

Tears welled in Colbey’s eyes at the thought of the child who had been as much son as student, quelled even as they rose by another idea.
But I know now that loss of a body part doesn’t bar a brave soldier from Valhalla.
Colbey clung to the thought.
No man or group could have taken Episte without a valiant battle. Maybe, just maybe, Episte did find Valhalla.
His mind ached, needing a certainty he could never have, unless Sif chose to give it to him. He shoved aside his own selfish need to grieve for the hope that Episte had found the haven for the best and most audacious of warriors. Colbey banished tears, mourning all the things he might have said as well as the words he had spoken in their stead.
Someday very soon, Episte, we will meet again in Valhalla.

*  *  *

Gradually, all of the forest disappeared, replaced by sallow fields of churned earth, flat from erosion. Cold hardened the clods into boulders, and the field lacked the wisps of brown stems and crushed stalks that always littered the Westland fields between harvest and planting. Over the centuries, the Eastlanders had stolen the richness and life from their land, sacrificing the forests for sprawling cities and building on farmland so overtaxed that it had become as hard and grainy as wood.

The wide open areas kept nothing hidden, and Colbey did not ride ahead of the others, as was his usual wont. He kept to the road, not wishing to add even a hoofprint
to the damage that had already been inflicted on the soil. Where the forest just beyond the mountain passes had reminded him of the central Westlands, the long, open stretches of flatland seemed more akin to the Western Plains. His mind kept seeking the ocean at the end of the beach, somewhere on the far horizon. But he found only a huddled mass of distant stone, the first city of the Eastlands, the one to which the road they traveled led.

As the town drew nearer, Colbey studied his companions. Mitrian kept her head low, mindlessly weaving her horse’s reins between her fingers. Rache and Tannin talked somberly in low tones. Occasionally, the Western Renshai placed a comforting hand on the younger man’s shoulder. Vashi rode just behind Colbey, hand permanently affixed to her hilt. At the back, Modrey and Tarah rode together. Arduwyn changed positions frequently, making little moans and gasps of agony, as if the land’s pain hurt him personally. Over time, Colbey’s sharp gaze spotted a pair of figures on the wall surrounding the city. He studied them as he rode, his vision gradually outlining the crossbows on their belts and the swords at their hips.

By midday, Colbey and his companions reined up before the Eastern city. Its bastions and gates dripped an oily green, and the cloudy sky suffocated it in a gloom that seemed permanent and fitting. The guards on the wall wore uniforms of alternating triangles of black and lavender that enhanced swarthy, sun-darkened skin. One called down something to the party in a language Colbey did not recognize. The voice sounded hostile, but the man did not reach for a weapon.

Colbey addressed his companions in Renshai. “Be prepared to retreat if either one goes for his bow.” He switched to a relevant question, “Does anyone speak the Eastern tongue?” Each of the Western Renshai shook his or her head. Colbey waited while Mitrian translated the question for Arduwyn.

Colbey winced. The fact that only one member of the group needed this service struck hard. In a short space of time, they had lost Korgar, Shadimar, and Garn. Non-Renshai among them seemed cursed, and Colbey wondered
if Arduwyn’s return might have doomed him as well.

In response to Colbey’s translated question, Arduwyn shook his head regretfully.

“Westerners.” The guard on the wall snorted, using the trading tongue with a dry, Eastern rasp. “There was a time when we guarded those passes. The law still encourages us to kill any of your kind who cross the border without the king’s permission.”

Vashi snarled, threading her horse up beside Colbey’s.

The elder caught her sword hand in warning. “We’ve come in peace.”

“Good,” the other said in pidgin Western. His throaty accent did the flowing language no justice. “We like our enemies to submit without a fight.” His gaze roved over Mitrian and Vashi to rest on Tarah’s abdomen. “Though we do prefer it if the women scream.”

Colbey could feel Vashi’s entire body go rigid with offense and need.

“Be still,” Colbey whispered. Aloud, he kept his voice calmly modulated. “I only said we
came
in peace. That’s for your safety, not ours. Should you insist on refusing this generous gift, we would be happy to leave your piled corpses to fertilize your land.”

The guards exchanged incredulous glances. “Is that a threat, O He Who Leads an Army of Six?”

Colbey shrugged. “Or a challenge. Your pick.”

Tannin’s horse snorted, pawing the ground. Apparently cued by Vashi’s impatience, her horse pranced, nostrils wide. Colbey’s white stallion echoed his composure, a statue with its statuesque rider.

The guards were silent, faces harsh. They exchanged words in the Eastern tongue. Colbey could catch only a faint aura of uncertainty. Clearly his calmness and his willingness to fight, six against a city, convinced them that he had some hidden force, talent, or weapon.

The first guard spoke again, “Why did you come? What do you want from LaZar?” Black bangs fringed a solidly featured face, and his dark eyes seemed to disappear into the shadow of his sockets.

“May we enter?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“Why?”

Colbey shook his head, unwilling to continue with the contradiction. “‘Why not?’ a million times.”

“Huh?” The guard clenched his features in confusion.

Colbey waved his free hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Just saving us hours of fascinating but tedious conversation. Now, if you can’t match a million ‘why nots,’ answer the question, please.”

“We don’t like your kind,” the other said, though whether in response to Colbey’s tactics or his query, the Renshai did not know.

“I’ll try to keep that in mind.” Colbey abandoned all hope of a coherent answer. “We’re just looking for information.” Placing his free hand in his pocket, he blindly shuffled coins from one pouch to another, then drew the smaller one from his pocket. Opening the pouch, he poured coins into his palm. For effect, he sorted two gold ducats from the silver, then dumped the lesser coins to the ground carelessly. “We can pay.”

The guards’ eyes followed the plummeting silver, then riveted on the remaining gold. Their demeanors softened noticeably.

Vashi went rigid as iron in Colbey’s grip. She spoke in the Renshai tongue. “You’re going to give money to those cowards? Renshai never needed gold!”

“Hush and be still!” Colbey shook Vashi’s arm. The word Renshai sounded reasonably the same in all languages, and no good could come of revealing their heritage so soon. “Our tribe also respects its
torke.
Every word you speak from now until I’ve settled this will cost you more than you can afford at your next practice. Do you understand?”

Vashi’s hazel eyes blazed, but she did go silent.

“Let me see that money,” the guard said with a caution that did not quite hide his excitement.