The Western Wizard

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “Stand up,” Colbey said.

  “What?”

  “Stand up,” Colbey repeated.

  Reluctantly, Emerald obeyed, still hiding behind her arms.

  “Is this what you want for your son?” Colbey pointed to the place on the floor where Emerald had cowered.

  “I–I don’t understand,” Emerald said. When no further threats came from Colbey, physically or verbally, she seemed to relax a bit.

  “Is that how you want your son to meet his enemies? They won’t show him the mercy I showed you. They’ll hack him to pieces and revel in the slaughter.”

  “Enemies?” Emerald straightened as she realized Colbey had no intention of harming her. The first tinge of color returned to her features, though tears still rolled down her cheeks. “Episte is barely four years old! How many enemies could he have?”

  “Hundreds.” Colbey remained unmoving. He hated the limitations placed on him and his charges by living among a culture that worshiped gods who allowed cowardice, that treated children like simpletons, and that allowed its women to grow soft and weak. “Whether you like it or not, the man you slept with was Renshai. And, whether I like it or not, most people find bloodline as important as you do. Just the fact that my people were Renshai was considered ample reason for the Northmen to murder them and the Westerners to rejoice in the killing. When his enemies come for Episte because he is Renshai, it will not be enough for him to know how to fight. He must know how to fight like a Renshai.”

  “No one needs to know.” Emerald spoke cautiously, her tone pitched to placate.

  Colbey frowned. “Several people know already. Secrets spread; they don’t die. It can only help Episte to be the best warrior possible. Why would you want anything less?” Colbey did not add that the Renshai needed Episte even more than he needed them. He doubted that saving the dwindling tribe would concern or interest Emerald.

  “Because I don’t like your methods.” Emerald looked up quickly, apparently fearing for the consequences of her boldness.

  Colbey gave a casual wave to indicate that she should speak freely.

  “And I don’t like what you’re turning my child into.”

  Colbey’s pale brows rose, smoothing his forehead. “I’m turning him into a competent swordsman.”

  Emerald brushed strands of hair from her face with nervous strokes. “You’re turning him into a Renshai.”

  “No.” Colbey’s features lapsed back to normal. “Episte is already Renshai. His father determined his bloodline, and you chose his father. I’m simply helping him become a competent Renshai.” It was an oversimplification. By Renshai law, sword skill, not blood, determined who became a member of the tribe. Yet, for purposes of solidarity and identification, the decision of who could learn the Renshai maneuvers was based on family. All full-blooded Renshai qualified for the privilege. Only the last Renshai could teach the maneuvers to outsiders, who then became full members of the tribe. From that time, all offspring of Renshai, no matter their blood, could learn the sword skills. “If it makes you feel better,” Colbey added, not really caring whether his words soothed, “I trained Episte’s father as a boy. You must have found something attractive about him that you chose to bear his child.”

  Emerald took the words as a challenge. “I loved Rache,” she fairly hissed. “He was the most beautiful man I ever met.”

  Colbey stared expectantly, certain Emerald did not love on this basis alone. Clearly, she had sought out the one quality for which Colbey could take no credit.

  Emerald continued, though whether to prove her depth or from honesty, Colbey could not guess. “He was graceful and agile. Just watching him move was a pleasure. He was afraid of nothing, and he was always eager for battle. Without Rache’s teaching, Santagithi’s guards would be half as able and his gladiators would have died.” She sighed. “Rache’s coldness and mystery only made him more desirable.”

  Colbey smiled, believing he had won the argument. Surely even a woman with no weapons training could understand that Rache’s early training had established his dexterity, courage, and his method of instruction.

  Emerald fiddled with the door’s knob, glancing sidelong at Colbey to see if he would stop her.

  Colbey remained still.

  Emboldened, Emerald opened the door, but she remained in the room, facing Colbey. “And all of those qualities killed him: pride and skill and courage. Without them, he would never have been crippled. He wouldn’t have charged into war with no concern for his own welfare. He would still be alive.”

  “Dying young and with honor is part of being Renshai,” Colbey said. It was a fact, not an admission.

  “And you wonder why I don’t want it for my son!”

  “But,” Colbey continued as if Emerald had never interrupted. “It was a consequence of a lifestyle the Renshai can no longer afford to live. We can’t charge recklessly into war any more. I’m sixty-six, and I was as eager as any Renshai for battle. More so, because I joined other Northern tribes in pirating raids and border skirmishes when the Renshai were at peace. Skill kept me alive.”

  “And modesty,” Emerald added, her voice just shy of sarcasm. She smiled nervously to indicate that she meant no offense, though obviously she meant exactly that. “Skill and modesty.”

  “Modesty has no place in a warrior’s training. If he is not the best, he should force himself to drill until he becomes so.” Colbey fidgeted. To his mind, the discussion had ended, and he wished to return to his svergelse.

  “What does your age and skill have to do with Episte?” Emerald stood in the doorway, her gaze trained on the elderly Renshai.

  “Only this.” Colbey’s hands slid to his hilts as he considered his practice, and the gesture send Emerald skittering just outside the door. “Episte has a natural grace his father did not. He’s quick, and his movements are smooth. He has more innate potential than any student I’ve ever trained.”

  Emerald managed a nervous smile at the compliment. Like all mothers, she knew her child was special. Apparently, the competence of her boy did not surprise her, only the length of time it had taken for others to notice.

  Colbey delivered the end-all. “If I can get him to take his lessons seriously. If I can get Episte to learn some control and dedication, he could, by the time he reaches my age, nearly equal my skill.”

  Emerald went still, silent for several moments.

  Colbey waited. “But he needs your full support.”

  Gradually, Emerald came around. First, she blinked several times, then she shifted back three steps. “You can force me to let you train my only child. You can steal the time I would use to teach the things I feel are important to him and to me. But not at any price will I let Episte become as cruel and single-minded as you.” Whirling, she stormed down the hallway. Her footfalls thundered along the passageway, then disappeared. The outer door slammed.

  Colbey laughed. Teach Episte that belligerence, rather than the tears, and he’ll do well. It pained Colbey to see a child with such potential reined, yet he saw no solution. He never truly considered slaughtering Emerald, though not from any respect for the woman. He knew it would hurt Episte and his relationship with the only other person with significant Renshai blood. If I can’t make him the best, at least I can train him to the limits of his upbringing. With that thought, Colbey closed the door and continued his practice.

  CHAPTER 5

  The King’s Return

  Smoke from Morhane’s pyre curled through Béarn’s forest, rising above the trees to become lost among the wispy clouds. Morning sunlight glazed the sky a nearly uniform yellow-white. Standing in the clearing with Mitrian, the Béarnian lieutenant, Morhane’s bodyguards, and one of the six Knights of Erythane, Garn thought little of Sterrane’s insistence that his uncle receive an honorable sendoff. To him, a dead body was simply dead, not worthy of time, prayers, or effort. And a dead traitor seemed the perfect food for wisules, rats, and vultures. Lack of sleep and pain made Garn even more cranky, t
hough the seriousness of their mission left him alert and on his guard. At least, his head seemed to have mostly cleared.

  Two of the Erythanian knights had ridden back to the city, with the elder, to announce Morhane’s death and the arrival of the new king. Shadimar and three knights attended Sterrane in the fashioning of Morhane’s pyre. The last knight stood at attention in the clearing, guarding Koska and Flent. He also watched over the horses, four white and one chestnut, while they grazed branches and the stubbly patches of weeds that managed to twist upward through the mountain soil. The lieutenant, Baran, spoke earnestly with Mitrian, their conversation floating clearly to Garn, though the ex-gladiator felt too tired and irritable to participate in the exchange.

  Baran’s brown eyes sparkled with all the excitement Sterrane’s had not shown. Dark curls tumbled about youthful features, and he wore the standard Béarnian beard, well-trimmed. A bastard sword hung from his belt, its leather grip black with use. “I can’t believe Sterrane’s returned,” he said, animated as child with a new toy.

  Garn believed he had counted eleven times that the lieutenant had spoken those same words. Though his friendship with Sterrane made him hope that all of Béarn’s guard would prove as loyal, Garn could do without the repetition. It seemed out of place for an officer, even one scarcely older than himself, to sacrifice dignity for joy. In the company of the stoic knights he currently commanded, the Béarnian lieutenant seemed silly.

  The knight nodded politely, clearly more interested in guarding than listening. Garn recalled the tales of valor he had heard about the Knights of Erythane. Their strict code of honor and prowess as warriors had made them famous throughout the Westlands. Based in Béarn’s sister city of Erythane, they wore the orange circle pierced by a black sword that served as the symbol of their home city on the backs of their tabards. Ultimately, they served the Westlands’ high kingdom of Béarn, and the fronts of their tabards bore its tan bear on blue. In peacetime, the main body trained and served in Erythane while a small, rotating contingent served the high king.

  Mitrian encouraged Baran. “You’ve waited a long time for Sterrane’s return.” Though statements, not question, her words encouraged explanation.

  Baran took the bait eagerly. “Eighteen years. Since the purge.” He lowered his head in solemn remembrance, his brief, mournful silence obviously ingrained habit. “Morhane and his men slaughtered Valar, his family, and all of his majesty’s most loyal soldiers, including my father.” He turned his gaze toward the distant castle. All of the giddiness left him, and Garn caught his first glimpse of the serious and commanding nature that allowed the sizable Béarnide to lead men. “I don’t think anyone was supposed to know that one of Valar’s children wasn’t found or slain. I don’t know who leaked the information. Some say there is no surviving prince, that the Western Wizard created the legends only to keep hope alive among Béarn’s peasants. But I knew from the start that Sterrane was the one. And that he would return.”

  “Were you there?” Mitrian asked incredulously. Sterrane had been six years old when the coup occurred, and it seemed unlikely that Baran carried many more years than Béarn’s heir. Still, Mitrian and Garn had grown up around Rache Kallmirsson and the Renshai racial feature that had made him seem much younger than his age. At his death, at the age of twenty-six, Rache had barely begun to shave.

  “There? Me?” Baran laughed bitterly. “Sterrane and I were young children then.” The smile returned to his face, apparently in response to some happy memory. “Best friends. I remember playing with him. I always pretended I was a court guard, like my father. When we’d romp through the castle corridors, I’d charge ahead to make the way safe for my liege.” Baran laughed again, this time joyfully. “Sterrane hated that. He always wanted me to play the king so he could guard me.” Baran explained further. “Sterrane was the middle child of seven. He had two older brothers and one sister, too far from the crown to ever expect to wear it. We always hoped we’d grow up to become court guards together.”

  Even Garn had to grin at the irony.

  Mitrian clarified. “So when you say you knew Sterrane lived. . . .” She trailed off, letting the guardsman finish.

  Baran obliged. “I knew the way a child knows. With unshakable certainty and no need for proof. Of course, the legends supported me.”

  Childhood memories meant nothing to Garn. Although born free, he had spent too much of his youth locked in a cage to find details of boys’ play moving. “The more important question is, how’re the town and the guards going to react to all this? Are we going to have to fight wars a hand against hundreds?”

  Baran and Mitrian turned to Garn at once, both suddenly somber. The lieutenant threw a brief glance at the knight and Morhane’s bodyguards, then gestured Garn over.

  Garn rose. His muscles ached from overuse. Movement pulled at a myriad of bruises, the dog bite, and the healing knife wound. Exhaustion swam down on him, making him wish he had not bothered to enter the conversation. Still, he knew he had asked a valid and important question. He needed answers, no matter his mood. Walking to Baran and Mitrian, he leaned against a tree, careful that his view included the dead king’s bodyguards, though the knight seemed properly alert and watchful.

  Though several moments had passed, Baran addressed Garn’s question as though he had just spoken it. “I think the citizens will revel in the king’s return. Morhane didn’t make any friends among Béarn’s people. He raised taxes against incoming merchants, which drove many to other markets. That meant imposing taxes on the citizens to make up for the loss. As you’ll see, the castle hardly needed the additional revenue. Kings don’t make friends when they garishly display their own wealth and indulgences to a starving populace. The courtyard boundaries expanded at the expense of the town.”

  Garn liked Baran’s answers, which were direct and uncluttered by detail. “You’re saying the people will gladly follow Sterrane.”

  “I’m saying . . .” Baran kicked at the deadfall that Shadimar had used as a seat, rolling it back and forth beneath his boot. “. . . that it shouldn’t take much to rally the citizenry to support Sterrane. Few liked Morhane. His twin, Valar, was a better king; and death has a way of taking away people’s memory of the few faults a man might have had. Many clung to the legends as their last chance for happiness. They served Morhane out of duty and the law. But, like the knights, their loyalty is to the kingdom not the king.” Baran brushed back the plume of office, and the pinions flared. “King Orlis of Erythane is bound by oath to support the Béarnian king, but he didn’t care much for Morhane’s greedy and overbearing politics. It didn’t take much to convince the knights not to interfere in a battle between the true heir and his father’s usurper. And, once finished, they owe their allegiance to the new king.”

  The political details confused Garn, but he believed he had caught the essentials. “So we have the people’s support, so long as we rally it. How do we rally it?”

  Mitrian took Garn’s hand, squeezing lovingly, accidentally sending spasms through his bruised fingers.

  “The stage is being set.” Baran’s foot stilled on the log. “Mar Lon sent Nifthelan and me along with the knights for a reason.”

  Guessing Nifthelan was the older Béarnide, Garn nodded for Baran to continue.

  “He’s our master mason, an elder well-respected and trusted by the townsfolk. Mar Lon sent him along to witness the exchange of power. Of course, the knights’ presences alone will appease most of those who aren’t already so devoted to the legends they don’t even need proof.”

  The information pleased Garn. “So the people hated Morhane. They’ve eagerly awaited Sterrane’s return. This’ll be easy.”

  Lieutenant Baran stared, clearly wondering if Garn was as simple as his understanding of politics. “Not that easy. No one’s universally hated, and Morhane wasn’t an idiot. He had his allies, mostly those who benefited from his reign. And, from court to outer to militia, Morhane treated his guards well. To do otherwise
would be folly.”

  Sterrane emerged from the forest, the medallion’s chain disappearing beneath his loose traveling shirt, hiding the royal crest. He wore the signet on his smallest finger. Shadimar and the three knights trailed him, their stances tight and their expressions grim. “We go now,” Sterrane said, his voice gravelly from crying.

  Garn smiled, pleased by a decision that he felt should have been made long ago. Baran hastily removed his foot from the log. He executed a deep and graceful bow. “Your Majesty, welcome home. My sword is in the service of Béarn and yourself until the end of time. May your reign prove long and . . .” Baran paused, his somber confidence dissolving into a cautious playfulness. “. . . beautiful.”

  Apparently, Baran had mangled the pledge. The knights tensed as one, every gaze straying to the lieutenant. Even Koska and Flent seemed surprised.

  Sterrane studied the lieutenant through red-rimmed eyes. His lips bowed into the first smile Garn had seen on his face since just after the Great War. A moment later, the huge king caught his massive lieutenant into a bear hug large enough for the two of them. “That’s fruitful, Baran,” Sterrane managed through a lungful of laughter. “Fruit-i-ful.”

  The origin of the error seemed obvious to Garn, and he guessed it had triggered Sterrane’s recognition of a friend he had not seen since early childhood. Most likely, the proper greeting had become trite and standard formality, passed from subjects to king a dozen times a day. Too familiar with it, few took care to enunciate. It only made sense that children might misinterpret a word or phrase. For the longest time, Garn himself had believed Santagithi’s archers greeted one another with, “Good eating.” Only as a teenager had he noticed the similarity between the terms “fafra,” to eat, and “feflin,” to hunt.

  The lips of several knights twitched, but every one managed to contain a smile. Mitrian grinned. Koska buried his face in his hands, his eyes as swollen as Sterrane’s. Flent remained still.