“Yes.” Santagithi skirted the issue of Garn’s credibility, speaking with his usual gentle insight. He grasped Rache’s hand like a father. “It gains him a life as a gladiator instead of execution.”
Rache lowered his head. He believed in his leader’s judgment. Yet this seemed wrong.
Reading Rache’s hesitation, Santagithi explained further, his tone soothing yet firm. He was wholly in control. “Rache, I’m not punishing Garn for protecting Mitrian.” Wisely, he avoided the uncertainty of the statement, accepting Rache’s viewpoint as if it were fact. “The boy’s motives are of no significance. I can’t have a free citizen who explodes into killing frenzies, especially a man as strong as Garn. You saw what he did to that boy and how he fought off the adults as well. He’s only eleven. Imagine the destruction he could wreak at your age.”
“I’ll watch him,” Rache promised. “I’ll keep him out of trouble.”
“No.” Santagithi left no room for concession. “You’re my guard captain, damn it. I need you for more important things than playing nanny. And I won’t be forced into the position of sentencing you for Garn’s violence.”
Rache fidgeted, staring at his feet. This time he knew Santagithi was right. Already, the more vengeful and vocal of Santagithi’s citizens clamored for Rache’s neck as well as Garn’s; many of them attributed Rache’s youth, battle wrath, and skill to evil magic and Garn’s tantrums to his exposure to this unnatural Northman. Still, Carad’s plea ached at Rache, and he could not shake the burden of responsibility.
Santagithi sighed, torn between his loyalty to his people and to his captain. “Of everyone, I would have thought you could understand the best. The pit gives Garn the opportunity to die in the glory of combat rather than dangling from the end of rope. As strong as he is, he might live for years or decades. His father did.”
Rache cringed, remembering his own short time in the pit, and quoting his torke from deeply ingrained habit. “There is no honor in fighting another man’s battles.”
“Given a choice between execution and the gladiator pit . . . ?”
Rache finished the sentence without meeting his leader’s gaze. “. . . I would choose death.”
“But you’re not the one being punished.” Santagithi squeezed Rache’s hand until the young Renshai met his gaze. “To him, following in Carad’s footsteps is an honor. Garn believes his father was a hero. . . .”
* * *
A hero. A hero. . . . The concept swirled through Rache’s dream-erratic thoughts, nudging his mind in another direction. Frenzied wolf howls, death screams, and Renshai pain cries assaulted him. Female hands secured him again, his mother pitching him into the Amirannak Sea, her voice loud in his ears, speaking words she had never said: “Though I place the burden of a nation upon you, do not hate me. My weakness was cowardice; you must not make the same mistake. Rache, whatever happens, you can do nothing wrong if you die a hero.”
“Mama!” Rache blundered into consciousness, the screams he heard his own.
A face lined with concern stared down at him, a rounded, female visage he did not immediately recognize. Her hands reached for his neck.
Instinctively, Rache caught the woman’s hands, and his movement startled them both.
“Rache?” the woman said. “Rache?”
Now, Rache recognized Emerald, a village woman infatuated with him since childhood. Once, he had cared for her, too. Six years ago, they had made love in the woods in adolescent passion. Afterward, the memory of Episte’s warning had frightened him, reminding him of the danger into which his heritage would place Emerald and their offspring. She was soft and gentle, full of love, not at all the type of woman he could expose to a legacy of vengeance and death. Afraid to become too close, he had run from her without explanation, at first blaming his work for keeping him from spending time with her, later offering no excuses at all. Because he could never reveal his true reasons, she could only interpret his actions as cruelty. Yet she was here.
“Emerald.” Rache tested his limbs and found his arms weak and his legs still uncontrollable. But he breathed easily and had improved tremendously since awakening in the guardhouse. Suddenly, Rache realized he had no way to measure the time that had passed during his fevered nightmares. “What day is this?”
Emerald knelt at the bedside and caressed Rache’s damp forehead. “One since you ate. Three since Santagithi moved you from the guardhouse. Which do you remember?”
“Neither.” Rache stared at the thatched ceiling of the unfamiliar cottage. The dreams had drained him of emotion, but his mother’s words made him patient.
“Who is Eh-piss-tay?” Emerald rested one hand on Rache’s blanketed chest and gazed into his face questioningly.
“Episte?” Rache restored the Northern inflection. He met her dark eyes and plain features with concern. “A childhood friend. Where did you hear that name?”
“You cried it out several times. He must have been important to you.”
Rache edged toward panic, afraid for the long-buried memories his ramblings might have uncovered. “What did I say?”
Emerald sat on the edge of Rache’s bed. “Mostly things I didn’t understand. I think you used the Northern tongue.” She blushed. “What little you said in our language, I wouldn’t repeat. And as you woke, you called me ‘Mama.’”
Rache noticed the shadows beneath Emerald’s eyes and the worried creases at her chin and forehead. Her vigil had been prolonged and loyal, and she had never seemed so beautiful to him. “Would I do this to my mama?” Rache gathered Emerald in his arms with a strength only recently gained. His kiss met eager lips. Emerald responded at first tentatively, then with bold relish. She pressed against him, awakening white hot passion. Suddenly, the fear of an heir disappeared beneath wild desire and the wish, the need to know whether he could still function as a man.
Rache’s hands traced Emerald’s breasts and came to rest upon the ribbon that laced her dress. He tried to untie it, failed, and tried again. His fingers lacked their usual coordination. With great difficulty, he completed this task and wandered to the stays. The first three exhausted him. Rache’s arms fell to the bed, and he trembled with frustration. I was a fool. Tears distorted his view, and the rustle of Emerald’s skirts taunted him. He lacked the mental will to face her and the physical strength to turn away.
Emerald removed her clothes and slipped beneath the blankets. The warmth of her body aroused Rache again. He had never known Emerald to act forward, yet her hands remained steady as she caressed the fine, blond hair that covered his chest and followed its path along his abdomen.
“Emerald.” Rache attempted a protest, but Emerald’s mouth smothered his and sent him to a giddy height of passion. He could not move, but Emerald insured he did not need to. When her hands found his loins, she laughed gleefully. Her discovery restored some of Rache’s confidence. She climbed onto him gracefully, patient with his awkwardness. Her gentle motions gathered his wits then scattered them in a rush of exuberance. He felt her stiffen before he lost consciousness again.
* * *
When Rache awakened, he found Emerald curled in a chair by the bed, her head resting on his chest. He freed his arm from beneath the coverlet and touched the rumpled skirts covering her knee.
Startled, Emerald sat up, her features haunted and hollowed.
Rache savored his newly recovered clarity of mind, free at last from the delirium caused by his injury. His legs remained beyond his command, but Rache suspected he could sit up with some effort. He set to the task courageously, grateful Emerald did not try to help him, even when his ungainly attempt dislodged items she had placed for his needs and comfort. Gradually, Rache forced his body to obey him until, panting with exertion, he was sitting up, victorious and yet annoyed at the satisfaction such a simple act inspired.
Emerald replaced the blanket across Rache’s shoulders. “This is your cottage,” she said, anticipating his question and breaking what had nearly become an awkward si
lence. “Santagithi moved your things from the guardhouse until you recover.”
Rache forced bitterness aside. The guardhouse was no haven for cripples, even ones recovering quickly. “Were you one of my ‘things’?”
Emerald’s cheeks tinted scarlet. “I promised to tend you. I’ve fed you and cleaned you and undertaken all the other matters too trivial for men.”
Despite sixteen years in a town with strict differences between the genders, Rache found the description strange. He wondered if Emerald’s “trivial” duties included sex. Guilt assailed him. He knew Emerald’s tasks included attending to the bodily functions he could not control. She had sacrificed her time and her pride, even after he had brushed her away. Emerald’s kindness and practicality more than offset her plain appearance. Many men would have married her, and Rache wondered why she willingly gave her love to one so undeserving.
Emerald misinterpreted Rache’s silence. “Rache, I’m not greedy.” Her long lashes hid the longing in her deep brown eyes. “You’re the best man this town’s ever had, and I don’t want anyone else. I promise I’ll be content with whatever you can spare me: an occasional smile, a few warm nights. I ask nothing more and give undying love in return.”
Emerald’s words hurt. Rache gathered her to him, and her tears on his chest seemed to burn like acid. He had scarcely emerged from a world of shadow, and nothing seemed real but the woman he held. She had become a light in his tragic life, but even now, he could not forget the heritage he dared not thrust upon her. The burden is my own, and the line will end with me. He struggled to find words to comfort Emerald yet still hold her distant.
A knock on the door rescued Rache from the need. “Just a moment,” he called.
Emerald rose, dabbed at her face and smoothed her skirts. “Come in.”
A sweet-smelling gust of air entered with Santagithi and Nantel. Both wore wooden smiles. Nantel dropped into a chair by the table. The mail bulging beneath his leather jerkin revealed that he belonged on duty. Santagithi took a place at Emerald’s side. “You’re doing well.” He added smugly, “As I predicted.”
Rache nodded. “By the efforts of two women. Emerald and Nature.”
“Sure,” Nantel added. “It has nothing to do with your iron will. You’re too damned annoying to stay hurt long.”
Rache marveled at how easily protected men spoke of will. In the North where food scarcely existed, a baby spent its first night outdoors, so only those strong enough to earn what they consumed would survive. Rache had been born in winter. “Within a week, I’ll spar the entire guard force at the same time.” He grinned insolently. “I’ll win, too. I’m sure the guards have withered without your ‘unbeatable sword master.’”
“And the gladiators,” Nantel started, then broke off, adding a ripe oath for his careless insensitivity.
Rache went taut and sweat gleamed on his forehead. Otherwise, he showed no sign of the loathing that flared within him. Heedful only of his own recovery and Emerald’s care, Rache had avoided thinking about its cause. At length, he asked the obvious question. “What have you done with Garn?” It needed to be asked, though Rache knew it put Santagithi in a precarious position. Anything short of execution would belittle Rache’s life, though the captain also recognized the value of a good gladiator. And Garn was one of the best.
Santagithi cleared his throat. “He awaits whatever punishment you mete.”
Neat. Rache smiled, impressed, as always, by Santagithi’s diplomacy. Ideas tumbled across one another, memories of the ghastly vengeances that charged hatred against the Renshai. As much from hazy recall of the receiving end of chains as to spare Emerald from harsh words, Rache answered gently. “Life and death in the pit is punishment enough.” He added beneath his breath, “At least until I’m well enough to inflict worse by my own hand.”
Someone rapped at the door. Rache sighed complacently. “As soon as I wake up, the vultures flock to feed on me.” He laughed alone.
“It’s Mitrian.” Santagithi’s voice held a note of apology. “She wants to talk with you privately, and I promised I’d ask you.”
“Sure,” Rache replied eagerly.
His companions exchanged knowing glances. Emerald lowered her head.
Too late, Rache realized their discomfort stemmed from the belief that he and Mitrian shared more than friendship. “I’m always happy to talk with your child,” he added, emphasizing the last word for Emerald’s benefit.
“Anything else we can do for you?” Santagithi asked.
Rache considered. His gaze swept the room, alighting upon his sword propped in a far corner. “Pass me my sword. I think I miss it more than my legs.”
Nantel and Emerald retreated through the doorway as Mitrian entered. Santagithi retrieved the sword and handed it to Rache. His other hand clasped Rache’s wrist. “I’ve forgotten all you said in anger.” Without awaiting a reply, he turned and trailed the others.
Rache watched Santagithi leave with admiration. The general knew ways to comfort as well as command, and Rache understood why Santagithi’s people had chosen him as leader. He listened for the sound of the closing door before turning his attention to Mitrian.
The girl stood tensely, obviously impatient to speak but deferring to Rache’s acknowledgment first.
“What is it?” Rache coaxed.
Smiling, Mitrian blurted out her news. “That last sequence you taught? I’ve mastered it.”
Gerlinr. The thought came to Rache’s mind, though he had never named it for Mitrian. He recalled his own excitement when he had learned the aesthetic technique at ten. Now, he grinned with her and passed her his sword. “Show me,” he said.
CHAPTER 4
Memories in Oilcloth
Shadimar was the first to realize Rache would never walk again. The Eastern Wizard brooded in silence at his makeshift table, a block of wood resting on four boulders of equal size. Fire danced in the hearth, a warm contrast to the lash of rain amid the ruins that served as his home. The downpour came of no normal storm, but of a magical tempest wound through with lightning and the ceaseless hammer of thunder, a grim show to ward away intruders. The wolf, Secodon, lay at his feet, whining softly at his master’s consternation.
Shadimar patted Secodon, but the gesture did little to comfort the wolf who, the Wizard knew, could read his master’s mood as easily as his actions. Shadimar was agitated for the second time in the century he had served as Eastern Wizard.
Where is Tokar? Sixteen years was an eye blink in the cosmos to the Wizards; decades of seclusion usually meant little to them. But Carcophan’s sudden silence convinced Shadimar that the Southern Wizard was plotting the final stages of the Great War. Siderin’s armies would leave the East any day, and the Westlands needed to make their own preparations during the months in which the Eastern general-king marched toward the battle plains.
Already, Shadimar had fulfilled his share of prophecies; he had raised and protected the only surviving child of the defeated high king in Béarn. His remaining task associated with the Great War was to rouse the armies in his small territory when the time came. But the responsibilities of the Western Wizard included mustering a Renshai to the war, rallying the remainder of the Westlands, including the larger, civilized cities, and uniting the Béarnian prince with the Renshai who would help him regain his throne if the West won the Great War. And, as far as Shadimar could tell, Tokar had done none of these things.
Shadimar rose, pacing from the warmer half of the room near the hearth to the cooler area by the door. In the last decade, he had sent Tokar three notes via the Wizards’ messenger, a falcon called Swiftwing. The Western Wizard had acknowledged none of them, and Shadimar was forced to contemplate the possibility that, though weakest and youngest of the Wizards, he acted alone.
Alone. Shadimar shivered at a concept that went far beyond the obvious. That prophecies could be thwarted was certain, the consequences less so. At the least, the Westlands would fall, subjugated to a general-king who w
ould as soon kill them all as waste time and money feeding them. And how would the loss of a Wizard, even one who did not champion a specific cause, affect the already tenuous balance of the world? Shadimar considered, but his thoughts kept returning to one question: How could we have lost the most powerful of the Wizards without so much as a cry of distress?
Only three things could harm the Cardinal Wizards: demons, the ceremony of passage, and the Swords of Power, three great blades of which only two had been forged. The swords lay, untouched, on the plain of magic. It was the other two possibilities that concerned Shadimar. Over the millennia, only a few of the strongest and bravest Wizards had dared to consult demons; of the current four, only Carcophan had done so. Immediately after the destruction of the Renshai, the Southern Wizard had mocked the others, saying the demons had told him that no Renshai had survived. Shadimar had come upon Rache by accident. At that time, he had sent one of the unacknowledged notes to Tokar. But, by then, it might already have been too late. Maybe Tokar bound a demon of his own. Maybe . . . Shadimar tried to suppress the thought, but it came too fast to discard. . . . the demon killed him.
Shadimar cringed at the thought. The wolf whined, its concern tangible. Or perhaps he chose his time of passing, and something went wrong. Perhaps his apprentice proved too weak or someone interfered. Having reached the door, Shadimar turned and started back toward the fire. He dredged up memories from his predecessors. Though rare, he found three instances where Wizards had died before their time, one Southern and two Eastern. The Southern Wizard had been run through by the White Sword of Power. Demons had taken each of the Eastern Wizards. Near their times of passing, the Southern Wizard and the first of the Eastern Wizards had each had a trained and tested apprentice who took his place. In the most recent case, no Wizard was close to his time of passing, so there had been no apprentice. Luckily, the remaining Wizards had swiftly found a woman capable of handling the power and near-immortality. They had sent her through the Seven Tasks of Wizardry and established her that day.
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