The Western Wizard

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  The last streaks of sunlight carved over the horizon, striping Santagithi’s citadel. Walled defenses enclosed the hill, surrounding the main dwelling, the guard quarters, the stable, and the buildings in the southern quarter that had once served for gladiator fights and training. A gate in the eastern wall led down the hill to the town below, a series of roads and cottages rimmed by forest to the north and east and by fire-cleared plains to the south. The Great Frenum Mountains formed a hazy gray barrier to the east, the northern and southern Weathered Ranges filling the horizon to the north and south. Westward, the smaller Granite Hills barely rose above the distant trees. The setting sun backlit the shadowy forms of sentries pacing their watches.

  Santagithi’s long strides set a pace that quickly brought them to the main house, Colbey following at a graceful trot and the guard jogging to beat Santagithi to the door. Colbey smiled at the picture. Whatever his trepidations, Santagithi would meet the situation with the same eagerness Colbey admired in the man in battle. The general saw everything quickly and competently executed no matter the emotional cost.

  The guard opened the door to Santagithi’s citadel, waved Santagithi and Colbey through it, then closed it behind them. Inside, Santagithi stopped before the first door, the one to his court. Though trained to notice such subtleties, even Colbey almost missed the hesitancy of the general’s hand on the ring and the not quite careless toss of his gray-streaked hair that was, if only for a fraction of an instant, delay. Then the door swung open to reveal four of Santagithi’s guards surrounding Mitrian and Garn, Shadimar, and his wolf.

  Emotion radiated from Santagithi, too strong for Colbey to miss, though he felt rude for his intrusion. He could sense the raw clash of joy and grim sorrow as well as an uncertainty that seemed jarringly out of place. Never again would Mitrian crawl into her father’s lap and beg for stories of war or adventure; she had experienced too many of her own. Her lean white legs had tanned and grown firm and knotted. The leather scabbard that swung from her sword belt was blackened from nights in the elements, but Colbey knew the weapon it shielded must gleam, as sharp as the day it was forged. If not, her first new lesson would become a lecture she never forgot.

  Colbey grinned as his own concerns mingled and became lost in the thoughts so clearly radiating from Santagithi.

  “Welcome home, all of you.” Santagithi caught Mitrian into an embrace, and she returned his greeting with equal fervor. Then, as they both pulled free, Santagithi turned to Garn.

  The tension rose even further. Colbey saw the guards exchange uncomfortable looks. Surely, they could not imagine that any words could seal the chasm of bitterness that had grown between father and son-in-law. Yet Colbey knew that the hatred Garn had held for Rache made this dispute seem small; and those two had found their peace.

  Santagithi wrapped his arms around Garn briefly. “I’m glad you chose to come. You won’t regret that decision.” He released Garn.

  Colbey stood by aloofly, pleased by Santagithi’s greeting. The general had a talent for reading people, and much of his strategic success came from a sensitive understanding of human nature. Clearly a short, to-the-point message would work best with Garn. Santagithi had made the ex-gladiator feel valuable and welcome, without gushing or the kind of sentimentality that could only have looked false.

  Garn nodded his thanks.

  While Colbey played judgmental observer, Shadimar strode up beside him and reached to seize his arm. Sensing something alarming in the Wizard’s bearing, Colbey instinctively avoided the touch with an agile sidestep. Then, feeling guilty for mistrusting, he smiled a welcome.

  Shadimar’s face drew into a stony pall of unreadable emotion. “You and I have things to discuss.”

  Struck by the anger and insolence in his blood brother’s tone, Colbey replied stiffly. “Things to discuss, my friend?”

  The Eastern Wizard spoke softly, but his voice held the uncontrolled power of a rock slide. “The Northern Sorceress claims you know things about the Western Wizard that only his successor should know.”

  Shadimar’s words baffled Colbey. “No, friend. I’ve never even heard of this sorceress, and I don’t know much about the Western Wizard either.” Colbey met Shadimar’s hard gaze with his own. “Stay the night in Santagithi’s guest chamber, and we’ll talk then. I’m afraid it might not be until late if Santagithi insists on losing another game of chess.”

  Shadimar’s mask dissolved to a twisted frown of surprise. “You’ve beaten Santagithi at chess?”

  “Fifty-three games.”

  “Clever as well as skilled.” Shadimar laced thin fingers through his beard. “Few men could outthink the West’s prime strategist. We’ll have to discuss your other talents as well.”

  Santagithi called across the chamber. “Colbey. I thought you should be the one to take Mitrian and Garn to their son. Shadimar, you’ll stay the night, of course?” The question emerged more like a command.

  But the Wizard handled it good-naturedly. “Of course.”

  “Come with me, then. I’ll take you personally.”

  Shadimar glanced at Colbey, silently confirming their meeting that night, then headed for Santagithi, the wolf at his heels. The guards shuffled after him.

  Colbey watched general and Wizard leave, certain of Santagithi’s motivations. He would get as much as he could of the story of Sterrane’s return through the impartial Wizard before plying Mitrian and Garn. Shocking news or impropriety could be better handled coming from an acquaintance rather than family. The old Renshai turned his attention to Garn and Mitrian, remembering the grueling sword practice he had put the boys through that evening. “Rache’s asleep.” He studied Garn as he spoke, watching for the father’s reaction to his child’s name. Garn and Mitrian had not seen their son since he had ceased to be called Kinesthe.

  Garn returned Colbey’s stare without flinching or scowling. Apparently, even without the boy’s presence, he had come to grips with the change.

  Mitrian looked at the floor as she replied. “I know he’s sleeping. I just want to look at him before he starts looking back with hostility. I left him too long for others to raise. I couldn’t blame him for hating his parents.”

  “Come on.” Colbey led Garn and Mitrian through the court door and into the main corridor. “That’s ludicrous, Mitrian. Rache doesn’t hate you. He asks about you every day, and his grandfather has made you both sound like gods. A year from now, he won’t even remember the gap of time when he didn’t have his parents.”

  Colbey in the lead, they strode through the half-lighted gloom of Santagithi’s austere hallways, which had to seem eerily plain after Béarn’s finery.

  “What did Santagithi tell Rache about me?” Garn asked, trying to sound diplomatic, though the nature of the question could not wholly keep bitterness at bay.

  Mitrian winced.

  Colbey made a vague gesture as they passed the room that had once belonged to Mitrian to indicate that the couple would stay there. “Actually, he’s played up your heroics in the war. He’s talked of your courage and your battle skills.” He turned a corner, aware Garn wanted a more specific answer. “As far as I can tell, he hasn’t said a word about you having once been a gladiator, and the guards have respected his silence.”

  “Good.” Garn smiled, obviously pleased by Santagithi’s decision.

  Before the door to Rache’s room, Colbey stopped, spinning to face his charges. “Garn, normally I wouldn’t interfere with a parental thing, but I think you know how important Rache is to me, too.” He reached behind him, catching the latch without bothering to look. “I think it would be better if you explained things to Rache in a calm, rational manner, before some ill-mannered townsfolk or guardsman makes a rude comment.”

  Garn scowled, his first hint of remaining enmity. “When the time comes, I’ll tell him. He’s my son, and I’ll decide when that time has come.”

  Colbey shrugged. “If you don’t feel you have the words, you need only ask Santagithi to
speak for you. Rache respects him, and he’s had more practice discussing delicate matters.”

  Garn’s scowled deepened. “When the time comes,” he repeated, “I will tell him.”

  Colbey turned back to the door, only partially displeased by Garn’s reply. Though he worried for Rache, he knew the boy was strong. Had Garn displayed no cynicism at all, Colbey would have fretted more. A complete shift from violent hatred to apathy would have been unnatural, a painted facade hiding a volcano. “Fine. But I can’t control what Emerald tells Episte. And if Rache asks me directly, I won’t lie to him.”

  Mitrian jumped in, apparently concerned about Garn’s possible reply. “We don’t expect you to.” She changed the subject too abruptly. “Episte? Isn’t that a Renshai name? I presume he’s Rache’s son?” She clarified quickly. “I mean the other Rache, the one Rache’s named after.” Her brow furrowed as she recognized a contradiction. Since the elder Rache had not known of his child until he lay dying on the battlefield, it made no sense that the boy had a Renshai name.

  “It’s Rache’s son,” Colbey confirmed, addressing the unspoken question as well. “His mother named him. A seventy-six-year-old Renshai named Episte completed Rache’s training after the mass slaughter of our people, though the old man’s dedication meant that he died of age rather than in battle. Apparently, Episte’s sacrificing Valhalla to train the last young Renshai impressed Rache. He must have spoken Episte’s name with reverence around Emerald. And she remembered it.” Colbey lifted the latch, but he finished before opening the door. “She knew Rache never wanted to have children. I think she hoped that naming the boy for Rache’s hero would bring him closer to his child. Of course, it never became an issue.”

  Colbey did not await a reply. Instead, he pulled open the panel. Light from the corridor fell across Rache’s small figure huddled beneath a sheepskin. He breathed evenly, his head framed by sandy blond hair. His features resembled Santagithi’s more than either of his parents.

  Colbey remained in the doorway as Mitrian and Garn walked silently to the child. As if she feared Rache might break, Mitrian hesitantly lowered a hand to his head.

  Rache’s breathing changed slightly, and he lay unnaturally still. Garn stiffened, then apparently dismissed his concern as foolish. Mitrian leaned closer to kiss the child, and Colbey detected an all but invisible movement.

  “Rache, no!” Colbey cried.

  Rache stirred, then went still.

  Mitrian froze. “What happened?” she whispered.

  Colbey and Garn joined her at the bedside. The old Renshai peeled the sheepskin from the child, revealing a knife nestled in his hand. He opened eyes like his sire’s, dark pupils rimmed with green. “Torke?”

  Aware how narrowly Mitrian had escaped getting maimed by her wary child, Colbey explained. “Rache, these are your parents.”

  The boy sat up and studied Mitrian and Garn. He said nothing, but a smile split his face, and he laughed with excitement.

  Colbey knew his presence was no longer necessary, so he bowed out graciously. “If you need me, I sleep in the tan room.” When generals are not begging for chess games and Wizards are not demanding counsel. Colbey closed the door and headed back down the corridor, moving with the lithe confidence of one whose mastery has kept him alive past his time. He suffered from none of the stiffness nature normally inflicted on men approaching seventy.

  Colbey negotiated the sequence of corridors that took him to the guest chambers, hoping to find Santagithi as well as Shadimar. He knocked at the closed door.

  Within moments, it opened, and Santagithi stood there, framed in the doorway. Time had not been quite as kind to the general. Twenty years younger, he moved as easily as Colbey, yet his face bore the haggard lines of responsibility. He placed a hand on Colbey’s forearm. “Good, you’re here. We’ll save our game till tomorrow. It’s late, and Shadimar wants to talk to you.” He pushed past Colbey into the hallway. “See you both in the morning.” He strode down the corridor, then stopped, turning. “Did Mitrian ask about her mother?”

  Colbey shook his head. “She had so many questions and concerns, I’m not sure she knew which ones to ask first.” He considered the many situations that Mitrian would need to sort out, nearly all the same ones bothering Santagithi: reuniting with the family, friends, guards, and acquaintances after she had changed so much; regaining her son’s trust; meeting Episte, who would need to become like a second son; and finding a way to fit Garn into a society he had so long seen as an enemy. Though horrible and traumatic, the pain of her mother’s death in a late life childbirth had to blend into the many other adjustments.

  Santagithi sighed, obviously tired. “After her son, her mother will be the first thing on Mitrian’s mind. I think it’s only wise to tell her tonight.”

  Colbey nodded his agreement, though his input only confirmed the course Santagithi already knew was right.

  Turning, Santagithi headed down the hallway in his usual stalwart manner.

  Colbey entered the guest chamber, his mind shifting to his own problems. Shadimar sat on the straw-ticked mattress, stately as a tree trunk against the leaf-green walls. The Pica Stone lay beside him, the huge sapphire indenting the covers. The room also contained a desk with a matching wooden chair. Secodon lay on the floor, attentive at the Wizard’s feet.

  Colbey closed the door, crossed the room, and sat in the chair.

  For several seconds, neither man spoke. It was Shadimar who broke the silence. “You haven’t forgotten our vows on the battlefield.”

  Colbey blinked. At the end of the Great War, he had found Shadimar with the sapphire that had once been a symbol of the Renshai. Reminded by Shadimar that the gem had belonged to his own people, the Myrcidians, before the Renshai decimated the town and took its treasures, Colbey chose to swear an oath of fealty with the Wizard rather than fight him. He had let the Wizard keep the Pica. “I haven’t forgotten. We’re blood brothers. What’s bothering you?”

  “Who is the Western Wizard?”

  Colbey licked his lips thoughtfully, but answered with wild incaution. “Has age addled your wits? I told you he died. If you’re asking what he became afterward, you would know his religion better than I would. If he was a Northman, I’m afraid he would not have found Valhalla.”

  Shadimar traced a line across his beard, obviously unamused. “Who replaced Tokar?”

  Colbey could make no sense from the question. Shadimar’s question seemed more like an attack than conversation. “Do I look omniscient to you? I don’t know a damned thing about Wizards, despite what this Northern Sorceress told you.” He smiled, trying to lighten the mood for them both. “Men have called me a demon, but they’ve never asked me to summon one.”

  Shadimar leaned forward and struck with verbal fury. “Trilless cannot lie. She says you witnessed Tokar’s ceremony of passage.”

  Irritated by Shadimar’s vague accusations, but still in control of his temper, Colbey sighed. “I don’t lie either. I don’t know this Trilless. And I don’t know what a ceremony of passage is. I only spent a few days with the Western Wizard before he died, and, if you don’t mind, I’d like to forget what happened there.”

  “Mind?” Shadimar’s face crushed into deep wrinkles, and his voice gained volume. “Those events might affect the entire course of the world, for Wizards as well as mortals. I should let your fear of a memory damn us all? Of course, I mind.”

  Shadimar’s words outraged Colbey, yet confusion and friendship softened his mood. All Northmen held a blood brotherhood sacred. Colbey would have made any other man pay for his accusation, but he accepted insult from Shadimar with only a warning. “I don’t fear anything, and I can’t imagine why my words or silence could damn anyone. We’re brothers. If you want to know something, just ask.” Colbey sat up straighter in his chair, his left hand resting casually on the sword hilt at the opposite hip. “You claim I can’t hurt you. If you push me too hard, you may find that I can.”

  A fleeting smile
flashed across Shadimar’s lips and disappeared. Clearly he doubted Colbey’s threat, yet his tone did grow less violent. “Forgive me. Sometimes I forget that mortals don’t always see significances that seem obvious to Wizards. Please. Tell me about your time with the Western Wizard.” Coming from anyone else’s mouth, the words would have sounded stilted; but they seemed right from the Eastern Wizard.

  Colbey studied his blood brother in the light of the room’s single candle. Blue robes of an old-fashioned cut draped over his narrow shoulders, and a black cloak enwrapped his skeletal frame. The old gray eyes seemed unnaturally watchful in a face that betrayed great age. Renshai rarely lived to their mid-thirties, so Colbey had little early experience with judging maturity. Estimating from his own features, Colbey guessed that the Wizard was some two decades older; but he could not be certain. Renshai appeared younger than other mortals, and Colbey supposed Shadimar might be the same age as himself. Yet the Wizard had mastered the art of looking as ancient and mysterious as carvings from previous generations, and his claims of immortality and invincibility added to the aura. Colbey had seen nothing of consequence from the Western or Eastern Wizards, nothing he could not explain by clever sleight of hand or illusion.

  Shadimar waited for Colbey’s reply as if no time had passed. At his feet, the wolf rolled to his back, his paws curled to his belly.

  Colbey closed his eyes, allowing recollection to flood back into conscious memory, bringing physical pain. Fire seared his fingers, flashing up his arm to engulf his body like an inferno. He crinkled his face, trying to remember the incidents without reawakening the agony, only to find them inextricably linked. It seemed odd to the verge of impossibility. In fifty years of combat, Colbey had felt the grazing slam of war hammers, the biting gash of pole arms, axes, and swords, and the sting of whips. He could remember the incidents behind the wounds and the extent of the torment, but he could not relive the actual pain. Somehow, though, the suffering that accompanied his memories of the Western Wizard could not be banished.