The Western Wizard

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “Yes,” the Béarnide said. “That’s me.” He relaxed slightly, apparently put at ease by Garn’s knowledge. “Now, who are you visiting?”

  It took Garn a moment to understand what had just transpired. Trapped, he knew he had to divert Rathelon without arousing more suspicion. He considered inventing a name that sounded Béarnian, but he knew that would be folly. Surely, Rathelon knew every citizen of the mountain city. “May I go now? Or is there some law against running in Béarn?”

  “There is if you’re running because you stole something.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “How do I know that?”

  “Is anyone missing anything?”

  The spear continued to hover. “Not that I know of. Yet.”

  Garn considered the objects on his person. Rathelon would not be able to tell the wine was poisoned unless he drank it, an action which would, by itself, solve the problem. Surely many people carried a knife and a tinderbox. Impatient to return to Mitrian, Sterrane, and Shadimar, Garn grew sarcastic. “You’re welcome to search me for . . . um . . . whatever it is that’s not missing yet.” He opened his guard fully, hoping Rathelon would take the challenge. If the captain came close enough to touch Garn, the spear and sword would become useless. Even as large and sinewy as Rathelon was, Garn guessed he would prove stronger, and his shorter limbs would gain him leverage.

  Apparently deciding that a man who would offer him an open search could be hiding nothing, Rathelon did not bother. “We do have a curfew.”

  Garn glanced into the sky where the golden glow of morning crept over the background of forest. “You have a curfew against being out after sunup?” Garn’s words reminded him of the passage of time, and urgency kept him from measuring his words or his tone. Rathelon’s stalling made it clear that he held no true charges against Garn.

  Rathelon studied Garn through slitted, black eyes as emotionless as marbles. “Clearly, you were out before sunup.”

  “Clearly to who? Did you see me then? I didn’t leave the indoors until dawn.” Garn spoke honestly, though it did not matter. Truth or lie, Rathelon could not prove otherwise. “Now, I’m honored to have met the captain of the guard, but I really do have to go.” Cautiously, he rose. This time, luck had worked against him. Probably, he had come upon Rathelon coincidentally, while the captain was making routine rounds to check his sentries.

  Rathelon frowned, keeping the spear on Garn, though he did not stop the ex-gladiator from standing. “You still haven’t told me who you’re visiting.”

  No longer able to avoid the question, Garn chose insolence, seeing a personal affront as the only sure way to divert the guard. “Your wife.”

  “What?”

  “I was visiting your wife.” Garn knew that, as the captain of the guard, Rathelon would have a full and unwavering faith in the law. Trusting in that, Garn pressed, hoping his effrontery would pass for understandable, self-righteous annoyance at being inappropriately detained. “You won’t recognize her, though. I shaved her beard.”

  Rathelon’s nostrils flared. His hands blanched on the spear haft.

  Garn held his ground. “May I go now?”

  Reluctantly, Rathelon withdrew the spear. “Go. But I warn you. If I find out you’ve done anything, no matter what it is, I’ll find a way to get you executed. And I’ll do it with my own hands.” He glowered. “I’m forbidden to challenge on duty; but if I ever see you when I’m not working, you had best hope your sword is at least half as sharp as your tongue.”

  Fighting words Garn knew. Many retorts sprang to his mind, the least of which would have goaded Rathelon into immediate combat. But Garn wisely kept these to himself. Instead, he walked away, careful to move out of spear range before turning his back on the captain.

  Rathelon’s grumbled words reached him, garbled but understandable. “Stupid wisule’s bastard.”

  Garn scowled at the insult but continued on, certain he would see the captain again. When he did, he doubted he could avoid a real fight. And he was not at all sure he wanted to.

  CHAPTER 4

  The High King’s Heir

  Sterrane sat on a weathered stump in the sparse mountain forests of Béarn, watching the sky dull to pewter as the sun sank below the line of trees. His war ax lay propped against a deadfall near his feet. The last rays of sunlight gathered on the blade, making it seem to glow, a strange, metallic presence amid nature’s softer colors and less angular shapes. Shadimar sat in the center of the clearing that now served as a camp, stirring ashes from the dying campfire with a stick. Wrinkled flesh hugged arms so thin they seemed to lack muscle or fat, yet the ease of his movements kept him from looking frail. White hair cascaded from his head to meet a full beard. Though age had changed the color, the strands maintained their youthful thickness. He had not changed in the eighteen years since he had met six-year-old Sterrane and spirited the heir to his storm-warded ruins near the Town of Santagithi.

  The wolf, Secodon, sat before Shadimar, gaze following the repetitive circles of the Wizard’s arm. Sterrane knew that Garn and Mitrian crouched in the trees beyond the clearing, awaiting the arrival of Morhane and his promised escort. Yet, for once, the closeness of friends failed to soothe Béarn’s heir. Always before, Sterrane had broken circumstances down to their simplest components. Always, it came down to integrity. All promises, whether stated or implied, must be honored, and he trusted all men to follow the natural candor and order imposed by the world Odin had created from law. When men forgot their vows, Sterrane presumed it was by accident, and he saw to placing them back on the proper path, whatever it took. The struggle between good and evil was not his concern.

  This philosophy, instilled in him by Shadimar, had served Sterrane well through his twenty-four years. Trust all; help all. Those four words had brought him through a lifetime of friendships and gained him no enemies. Yet, on the issue of his uncle, King Morhane, Sterrane found himself wrestling with his conscience for the first time in his life. Shadimar had insisted that the traitor must die, yet Sterrane could not see the method or the cause. Grimly, he shook his head. Noticing that Shadimar had turned his attention at this movement, Sterrane addressed the Wizard. He used the trading tongue, though he seemed doomed never to learn its rules or complexities. “No.”

  Shadimar snapped the twig between his fingers, tossing the halves into the smoldering coals. He trained eyes as gray and timeless as mountains directly on Sterrane. “What do you mean ‘no?’”

  Sterrane met the Wizard’s warning glare. “Not kill family. It wrong.”

  “Sterrane, we’ve already been through this.” Shadimar’s voice lacked its usual, near-immortal’s patience. “Morhane cannot be forgiven nor trusted. If you leave him alive, he will find a way to kill you and retake the throne.” Secodon whined, cringing from Shadimar. Empathetically linked to his master, he could surely read the anger and disappointment that the Wizard’s tone conveyed to Sterrane.

  “He family. Me talk. He learn. He change.”

  “No.” Shadimar rose, his cloak falling in folds and wrinkles about a body nearly as narrow as a staff. “I see things you can’t. Morhane cannot be changed, and your mercy will only assure your death.”

  Sterrane pouted, his face childlike despite the dense black mane of hair and beard and a massive frame packed with fat and sinew. “We both live.”

  Shadimar shook his head, denying the possibility. “For you to reclaim your throne, one of you must die.”

  “Then me not reclaim throne.”

  “What!” Shadimar sounded shocked for the first time since Sterrane had met him. He covered the ground between himself and Béarn’s heir in an instant, the wolf skittering aside to save its paws from a trampling. “That’s nonsense.”

  Sterrane stuck with the easy solution. “If not be king, not need kill family.”

  “Damn it, Sterrane.” Shadimar stomped his foot, kicking up a divot of dirt. “I thought this was settled. We haven’t time for this madness now.”


  Sterrane shrugged noncommittally.

  “Prophecies aren’t random; I thought you understood that. They don’t just happen because they fit the whim of fate or the cosmos.” Shadimar made a broad gesture, encompassing the horizons. “Millennia ago, the first Eastern Wizard determined that you would take back the high kingdom. Since then, twenty-three Eastern Wizards have worked to see to your ascension. Jalona talked Odin into giving the bards the job of king’s personal bodyguard in addition to entertainer. Drero built the underground tunnel that saved your life. Seeing you back on your throne is one of the primary reasons for my existence.”

  Sterrane stared in silence, uncertain how to respond to the Eastern Wizard’s revelations. Since the day of his escape, Shadimar had taken a personal interest in him. The Wizard had raised Sterrane for two years before turning him over to Rache and Santagithi for a year, in the belief that Rache, not Mitrian, was the Renshai destined to help Sterrane retake the throne. Shadimar had then claimed the job of guardian until Sterrane was old enough to strike out on his own. Yet, the Béarnide would never have guessed Shadimar’s life or the integrity of Wizards hung in the balance. “If me give up throne, you die?”

  Shadimar frowned, considering Sterrane’s broken rendition of the trading tongue, apparently wanting to answer the correct question. “No,” he admitted, his demeanor calmer. “I can’t die until I choose to do so.”

  Sterrane nodded, his view of reality restored. He knew that Shadimar’s life already spanned more than two centuries, and, from experience, he had noticed that no object seemed capable of harming him, accidentally or by intention.

  As if to reinforce the point, Shadimar hefted Sterrane’s ax, carelessly clamping his fingers along the blade. “Sterrane, Béarn is as much your child as baby Rache is Mitrian’s. Your decisions, no matter their content or reason, no longer affect only you.”

  Shadimar’s words confused Sterrane. “Not understand.”

  Brush rattled behind Sterrane, followed by Mitrian’s voice. “They’re coming. Morhane and two very alert guards. Garn’s preparing.” Without awaiting a reply, Mitrian disappeared back into the forest, the swish of branches and vines defining her route. Unlike Garn and Arduwyn, she had little experience creeping through woodlands. The harder she tried to move silently, the louder she became.

  Sterrane turned back to Shadimar. Sorrow made the old gray eyes seem liquid, and the Wizard’s stance was resigned. “Do what you feel you have to do, Sterrane. It’s your world and your kingdom.” Without another word, he turned and headed back to the fire. He sat cross-legged before it, stirring a finger through the coals. Secodon walked a narrow circle, then lay down at Sterrane’s feet, his bushy tail covering his nose.

  Sterrane swallowed hard. Forbidden from harming mortals by Odin’s law, Shadimar could do nothing but goad and observe. And Sterrane found himself in the same position as before their talk, torn between correcting an old sin and committing one of his own. Teachings from his childhood rumbled to the forefront, little more comprehensible now than then. But one thing did seem clear. The high king in Béarn held the task of keeping a balance he did not understand, of dedicating himself to enforcing Odin’s law and codes of honor, no matter the price in morality. Sterrane could not begin to explain his uncle’s willingness to abandon honor and slaughter family, but his self-interested need to place his own person and line on the high throne was clearly evil. And evil, like goodness, did not have a place in Béarn’s rule. Clearly Morhane had to die, yet Sterrane wanted no hand in his murder.

  Leaves and twigs crunched and snapped as Morhane and his escort approached the clearing. Sterrane used the haft of his ax like a crutch, grinding the base into the dirt. He rose, unprepared to meet his uncle, but knowing that, one way or another, he must.

  Suddenly, a burly figure in Béarn’s blue and tan stepped into view from behind a cluster of trees. Seeing Sterrane and Shadimar, he stopped short, briskly gesturing someone behind him still, presumably Morhane. A moment later, another guard stepped up beside the first, slightly smaller but equally Béarnian dark. “Who are you?” the first guard demanded. His blanched fingers kneaded the hilt of his sword.

  The Eastern Wizard removed his hands from the coals, silently deferring to Sterrane. He had nothing to fear from mortal weapons, nor could he take an active part in the conflict. The wolf looked from Wizard to heir to guards.

  “Who are you?” the guard said again. He focused directly on Sterrane, apparently having assessed the unarmed, scrawny elder as the lesser threat. But his gaze did stray to the wolf.

  “Me—” Sterrane started, but Shadimar cut him off.

  “Use native,” he said softly, yet with authority. He modulated his voice perfectly to command without undermining.

  Sterrane switched to Béarnese. In his youth, the Wizard had always encouraged him to use the trading tongue for the practice. For reasons he could not explain, Sterrane had a clumsiness for learning languages that did not seem to improve with time or exposure. “My name is Sterrane.”

  Abruptly, Morhane’s bearded face appeared from behind the trees, his sudden lack of caution rattling the guards. He studied Sterrane in the gray haze of evening, surprise darkening his swarthy, bearded features. The royal crest swung from a chain around his neck, the rearing bear medallion resting in his speckled beard.

  Sterrane recognized his uncle at once by his uncanny resemblance to Sterrane’s father and, more recently, to Sterrane himself. A mixed swirl of emotion assailed him: the crushing heaviness of grief, a hatred so pure it seemed to burn, and an unconditional love that honor decreed must come with shared blood. “You killed your brother, Morhane. My father. You murdered my brothers and sisters and Béarn’s most faithful guards.” Sterrane’s gentle features twisted with anguish, and his eyes grew moist. But his tone betrayed nothing. “Why?”

  The guards shifted restlessly, awaiting a command. One politely motioned Morhane back behind him, though the king ignored the gesture.

  A noise above Morhane and his escort drew Sterrane’s attention. His gaze drifted to an ancient oak as Garn settled into the branches. He did not see Mitrian, and he guessed that her inexperience with scouting forced her to move intolerably slowly. Still, when he listened carefully, he thought he could discern the noises of distant motion.

  Morhane and his guardsmen seemed to take no notice of the rustling leaves above them, apparently either attributing the sound to wind or distracted by the danger Sterrane posed to their king.

  Morhane circled around his bodyguards and approached Sterrane with his empty hands displayed in a gesture of welcome. A huge, gilded ax lay strapped across his back, and a jewel-encrusted sword hilt jutted from a tooled, leather-wrapped scabbard at his waist. He made no move to draw either weapon. “Sterrane?” His voice went thick with guarded hope. “Nephew? Is that really you?”

  The guardsmen’s shock reflected clearly on their faces. They strode hesitantly after their king, obviously wishing they could retake their positions in front of him, yet knowing better than to challenge his intentions.

  Sterrane remained standing in place, unsure how to react. Of all the possibilities that had played through his mind, he had never expected a heartfelt greeting from Morhane. In response, he nodded. His own repertoire of thoughts and emotions did not include deceit, and, since childhood, he had known nothing but friends who coddled and protected his innocence like a toddler’s.

  Morhane twisted his head to his escort. “Flent. Koska. Do you see? My nephew Sterrane is alive!”

  Despite the sincerity in Morhane’s voice, the guards seemed uncertain whether to celebrate the circumstance or to remedy it. In the tree, Garn froze, watchful. Mitrian remained out of sight.

  Still, despite his naïveté, Sterrane was not stupid. Though he trusted his uncle’s candor, he had not received a satisfactory answer to his question. “Why?” he repeated. “Why did you kill my family?”

  Morhane’s grin wilted, replaced by an expression of pained sorrow. “
You think I killed your family?” Incredulity radiated from him. “My own brother? My nieces and nephews? No, it’s not true. I fought by their side against the invaders, and I worried when I found you missing. Who told you such a horrible lie?”

  The Béarnian bodyguards exchanged glances, seeming as surprised as Sterrane by the king’s words and manner.

  Sterrane glanced toward Shadimar, both in answer and to solicit advice. As his attention shifted, he caught a glimpse of Mitrian moving up behind Koska. Garn remained in the tree, no longer above Morhane, though a leap could still carry him to either of the guardsmen.

  Morhane followed Sterrane’s dark gaze with his own, locking on Shadimar. “Old man, you told Sterrane that I killed our family?”

  Addressed directly, Shadimar rose, unfolding his long, lean frame. The wolf remained, quiet but alert, at his feet. “I saw no reason to keep the truth from him.”

  Morhane’s eyes went as flat and dull as the spent coals. “How dare you make such an accusation. How could you claim to know? You weren’t there.”

  “When the mouse is missing and the snake has a bulge in its belly, I do not need to see the consuming.”

  Sterrane thought he heard a horse whinny. He dismissed the sound as a phantom creation of his own discomfort. His nerves had gone taut as bowstrings.

  Apparently also cued by a noise, Koska whirled to face Mitrian. He crouched, eyes flicking from her obviously feminine features to the incongruity of her readied stance and the sword at her hip. Flent turned, too, placing his person between Morhane and this new threat. “Caution, Highness. He has allies.”

  “Ah.” Morhane ignored his guards, still studying Shadimar, and his eyes flashed with an emotion Sterrane could not place. “So you admit your evidence is circumstantial. And you would condemn a man and destroy a family bond based on empty guesses?” Passing off the Wizard as beneath his dignity, Morhane turned back to Sterrane. “I have nothing to fear from my nephew, and he has nothing to fear from me.” Despite his reassurances, Morhane glanced briefly at Mitrian before returning his attention to Sterrane. He wore a broad smile, and the light in his eyes became an excited twinkle. “I can’t believe you’re alive. All these years lost, and now we’re together again.” He lowered his head. “Of course, these are yours.” He seized the medallion by its chain, levering the Béarnian crest over his shaggy head. He handed it to Sterrane along with the signet. “Your Majesty.”