The Western Wizard

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “Paraphrase.”

  Colbey cleared his throat, though he felt no need. It was a delaying tactic. “Haim went into a long explanation that sounded like a well-learned lecture. He talked about gathering every shred of evidence, considering every alternative, and exploring each possible outcome. I remember him saying that the process could take months or years and that the more difficult and important the decision, the more patience a man must have. He said that this method rarely failed him.” Colbey chuckled.

  “Did you laugh then, too?”

  “Yes,” Colbey admitted.

  “You disagree with Haim’s method?”

  Colbey laughed again. “That’s precisely what Tokar asked me.”

  “What did you say?”

  Colbey considered. “I said, ‘My method is the same. The difference is time. I make my decisions as quickly as an eye blink, and the more important the decision, the faster I have to make it. I make my choices on the battlefield. Since I’m still alive, I’ve obviously never once made a mistake.’”

  Shadimar sat up. “What did Tokar say to that?”

  “Nothing. He fell into a troubled silence. We’d been walking for the entire conversation, and we entered a lush valley deep in the mountains. The clouds had stretched apart, and rainbows arched from peak to peak. Streaks of light slithered like snakes between the bands, but they weren’t lightning. I still smelled no rain. Clearly, Tokar had made his decision, because his aura had changed to one of utter tranquillity.”

  Shadimar leaned so far toward Colbey he seemed on the verge of falling from the bed. Secodon sat up, ears pricked forward.

  “Haim sat on a rock, wringing his hands. I waited nearby, clutching the herbs I hoped to use on the ailing Wizard. Tokar stood on a knoll, his stance as open as a Western preacher at a ceremony.” Colbey paused, hoping Shadimar would stop him. He waited for the Eastern Wizard to claim he had heard enough and to let Colbey drop the memory before the pain returned, still excruciating despite being dulled by time. But when Shadimar said nothing, Colbey continued dutifully. “The old Wizard chanted strange words in a language I didn’t recognize. Visions appeared—”

  “The beings that represent great good and great evil in your mind.”

  “Baldur, the most beautiful of the gods,” Colbey confirmed. “And Mana-garmr, the wolf destined to extinguish the sun with the blood of men at the world’s end. These came together, warping into a shapeless, gray cloud that floated into the sky. Then streaks of crimson slid from the heavens, forming into the shapes of long, lean men.” The first stirrings of agony lanced through Colbey’s chest, and he caught his breath. “True to my word, I made my decision instantly. Drawing my sword, I sprang to pull Tokar from the path of the creatures.”

  “Gods.” Shadimar’s usually imperturbable features etched into a warped caricature of horror. “You didn’t touch him.”

  “I caught his shoulder.” Pain speared through Colbey, and he broke off with an involuntary gasp.

  Secodon whined.

  “Gods,” Shadimar repeated. “What happened?”

  “Pain,” Colbey said, breaths quickening against the memory. “The worst I’ve known and the longest.” He kept the description as succinct as possible, needing to get past the moments of suffering that had passed like weeks. “I consider myself a strong man, not the least tolerant of pain. Yet even as the price for ultimate power and knowledge, I would not relive that moment.” A chill traversed him from head to toe, convulsive in its intensity, then the pain disappeared.

  Shadimar studied Colbey quizzically. “What happened next?”

  Colbey wiped beads of sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “I don’t know. Oblivion finally found me. And, for the only time in my life, loss of control became a welcome friend.”

  “What about Tokar?”

  “I found him dead.”

  “And Haim?”

  “Dead, too.”

  Anguish twisted Shadimar’s face. “Are you certain?”

  The question seemed absurd. “I’m a warrior. I know ‘dead.’”

  “You were in a weakened state. Perhaps you only thought Haim was dead.”

  Colbey shook his head, positive. “It hardly matters now. I put them both to pyre.”

  “And they both burned?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then they were dead.”

  “Yes,” Colbey confirmed, his tone becoming sarcastic. “For one who claims to know the wisdom of the ages, that should seem obvious enough that it doesn’t need to be said.”

  Shadimar frowned, his features still tensely bunched. “Had they been alive, fire could not have harmed them.” For a long time, Shadimar stared at the wall in silence. Secodon paced, revealing the agitation that his master hid.

  Colbey settled more comfortably in his chair. “Did I tell you what you wanted to hear?”

  Shadimar sat bolt upright and stiffly, considering a question that, in Colbey’s mind, seemed simple. “You did tell me the part of the story I needed to hear. But you could not have given me worse news.”

  Colbey wanted to apologize for dropping the death of two friends so suddenly on Shadimar, but he could not forget that the Wizard had pressed him to the tale. And the rigidness in Shadimar’s manner told him that something far more serious than a colleague’s demise troubled the Eastern Wizard. “Should I have kept my silence?”

  “No.” Shadimar heaved a deep sigh and relaxed slightly, his first movement for quite some time. “I cannot work without facts. Like it or not, I need the bad news more than the good.”

  Colbey tried to understand the problem. “There is no Western Wizard anymore.”

  “Apparently.”

  “Is that bad?” Beginning to find patterns in the Wizard’s replies, Colbey beat Shadimar to the answer. “And if you just answer ‘yes’ without explaining, I’ll put so many holes in your mattress it’ll be good for nothing but horses.” He jabbed a foot toward the straw ticking.

  A ghost of a smile touched Shadimar’s lips, then was lost beneath the burdens that crushed in on him. “The Western and Eastern Wizards champion neutrality the same way the Southern Wizard spreads evil and the Northern Sorceress goodness. Neutrality requires more than just staying aloof from others’ battles. It isn’t just a wall between them, and the Westlands is more than a no-man’s-land separating North from East. Without neutrality, the world would exist, as you aptly said before, only in extremes. As it is, for all the pride Carcophan and Trilless take in their accomplishments, by sneaking their own cause into one another’s followers, they’ve mostly made all mortals essentially neutral. It’s a matter of degree.”

  Colbey suspected it wiser not to question a system about which he knew only a few tenets, but he could not help asking. “If the result of good and evil trying to take over is mostly neutrality, why do we need a Western Wizard?”

  “Because neutrality is a force all its own. Without it, men could only be good or evil, not a combination of both. Besides . . .” The contemplation invoked by Colbey’s questioning seemed to banish Shadimar’s other concerns, at least for a time. “. . . I only said that neutrality results so long as the Southern and Northern Wizards sneak their causes into mortals, using subtle techniques. More than any Wizard before him, Carcophan likes grand war tactics. Had he goaded Siderin and his army against the North rather than the Westlands, the war would still be raging. And there’d be few survivors.”

  Colbey tried another tack. “You represent neutrality, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And the Western Wizard?”

  “Also champions neutrality.”

  “But only one Wizard represents good and one represents evil.”

  Shadimar said nothing, clearly awaiting a point that seemed obvious to Colbey.

  “If neutrality is an entity like good and evil, why do you need two Wizards for it?”

  The wolf stopped pacing. Instead it walked a tight circle and curled up on the floor. Shadimar watched Secodon p
osition himself. “Odin made it so.”

  Colbey clung to the point, thinking of the stories he had heard as a boy of the three fates and the three women Heimdall slept with to create the different races of men. “But the gods always seem to like the number three. Why four when three will do?”

  “It’s a child’s question, Colbey. The gods have reasons even Cardinal Wizards don’t understand. Perhaps Odin believed that two Wizards could more easily stand between the others, and he saw the ultimate necessity of and balance inherent in neutrality.”

  Colbey chose not to take offense. “So the Western Wizard and his apprentice are dead. Does that mean there can’t ever be another Western Wizard?”

  Shadimar frowned, shaking his head. “Now that I have proof that there is no Western Wizard, the Southern and Northern Wizards have no choice but to help me find a replacement and to help put him or her in power.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  Shadimar sagged to the bed again, the intensity of his thoughts keeping exhaustion at bay. “I need to find a mortal who embraces neutrality and is competent, honorable, and skilled enough to survive the tasks of Wizardry with little or no training. Without the collective consciousness of the previous Western Wizards to guide him, he will need to be self-confident and rock stable. A man or woman who passes that description will not be easily found. And I can’t afford to compromise. Until I have that person, I can’t gather my colleagues.”

  “Do you have anyone in mind?”

  Shadimar fidgeted, avoiding Colbey’s gaze. “I know of only one man who fills enough of that description to consider. But I’m not completely certain of his loyalties, and I think he might refuse me.”

  “Who?”

  Shadimar met Colbey’s fierce blue-gray eyes with gray ones equally as hard. “You.”

  Colbey could not have been more surprised had Shadimar named Secodon. “I’m flattered, really. But I have no interest in immortality or guiding anyone’s life except my own and the Renshai. And I have no experience with magic at all.” Colbey did not feel wholly certain his last comment was truth. He did not know what magic entailed, but he had seen nothing to make him believe it was anything more than trickery, illusion, and mind over body control. All Renshai learned meditation techniques; it was part of their training. Colbey knew his own ability to catch radiating emotions and occasional verbatim thoughts was unique.

  “I thought not,” Shadimar said. “And it’s probably just as well. Despite all of your age and ability, you would make a strange Wizard indeed.” He glanced sideways at Colbey, apparently trying to lighten the mood. “You may go now.”

  Colbey rose. “Sometime, you’ll have to tell me about returning Sterrane to his throne.”

  “Sometime soon,” the Eastern Wizard promised. “I will.”

  CHAPTER 11

  The Wizard’s Advice

  Wisps of smoke twined from braziers on either side of the chessboard and hung like a cloud above Garn’s and Colbey’s heads. In the two weeks since his return from Béarn, Garn had seen the pieces set up in Santagithi’s game room, and he had needed to understand the allure of the game. So far, it still escaped him. He watched, annoyed, as Colbey took his ninth white piece from the board with a black knight. “You can’t take my queen!”

  Colbey cradled the ivory piece in his hand. “Why not?”

  Garn squeezed the edge of the table so tightly, his knuckles blanched. His gaze ranged from pillows tossed carelessly across wooden couches lining the walls to the simple chairs and tables spread in a random arrangement about the room. A keg of ale sat in one corner. “My queen is three times bigger than your . . .” Unable to recall the name of the piece, Garn tapped a finger on the black knight, sending it sliding several squares to the right.

  Colbey laughed as he repositioned the black knight and placed Garn’s queen next to the board, with the other captured pieces, all white. “In chess, the largest and strongest don’t always win. The shape decides movement and—”

  “Let’s say—” Garn interrupted and was in turn cut short by the creak of the opening door.

  Both men turned toward the sound. Shadimar and Santagithi stepped through the portal, and the general closed it behind them. Smoke eddied in the breeze, winding between the pieces.

  “Let’s say,” Garn started again, attempting to complete his war analogy about mailed generals against farmers armed with shovels.

  But Colbey would not allow it. “Let’s say you made a foolish mistake and lost your queen. Can we continue?” He turned his attention to Santagithi. “Do you mind if we finish, sir?” He smiled maddeningly. “It shouldn’t take but a move or two.”

  Santagithi waved the Renshai off, shaking his head vigorously. “No. Not at all. Finish your game, please. I’d love to watch you beat someone else for a change.” He winked at Garn to indicate that he meant no offense.

  Garn stared at the board in sullen silence, disappointed that no one felt he could compete with Colbey, yet knowing they were right. He had chosen the game mostly from boredom; Santagithi’s people treated him with a respect that kept him at a distance. Most still remembered the volcanic temper that had driven him to kill a playmate as a child and had committed him to life in a cage. Many feared him. Others gave him tolerant greetings, then turned to grumble beneath their breath, as if he could not tell. And, while ordinarily peasants’ antics would not bother Garn, the huge amount of time his wife and son spent in lessons and practice made him long for a friend or, at least, a companion. Now Garn’s gaze followed Shadimar as the Wizard moved behind Colbey to examine the arrangement on the chessboard. Santagithi sat in a chair, a polite distance behind Garn.

  Delicately, Garn moved his bishop two spaces, then a third. He kept his finger on the piece, staring into Colbey’s eyes. Finding them cold and gleaming, Garn returned the bishop. “You’d like me to do that, wouldn’t you?”

  Colbey smiled in amusement but said nothing.

  Garn’s hand drifted, then settled on a white rook. He sat still for several moments while smoke rolled about them like fog. What little he understood of rules and strategy suggested that he move the bishop. Slowly, he took that piece in hand again. His gaze swept past Colbey to Shadimar, and the approving smile on the Eastern Wizard’s face gave him confidence. He inched the piece in a diagonal, stopping at the first square.

  Shadimar shook his head, frowning.

  Garn pushed the bishop another block.

  Again Shadimar shook his head.

  Garn moved the piece one more space.

  Shadimar’s scowl became a smile, and he nodded his agreement.

  Garn tapped the bishop’s head with his index finger, leaning back in his chair with a smirk.

  Colbey stared at the board. “Is that your move?”

  “It is.” Garn folded heavily-muscled arms across his chest.

  “Interesting.” Colbey removed Garn’s bishop, replacing it with the black queen. “Checkmate.”

  Garn grasped the end of the table with enough force to send the pieces tumbling. He glared, first at the shambles of the game in disbelief, then at Shadimar. “For one who pretends to be so vast and mighty, you don’t play very well.”

  Calmly, Colbey reset the board without bothering to look at Garn’s co-conspirator. “You’re assuming, Garn, that Shadimar wanted you to win.”

  Garn rose, grumbling, but not too self-absorbed to note how the color drained from the Wizard’s narrow features. Apparently, Colbey had spoken Shadimar’s mind verbatim and, unlike Garn, the Eastern Wizard did not have enough experience with Colbey to have grown accustomed to his strange talent. Visibly shaken, Shadimar swept silently from the room. As Santagithi took Garn’s vacated seat, the ex-gladiator headed for the door as well.

  Still with his back to the door and the exiting Wizard, Colbey called after Garn. “Tell Mitrian, Episte, and Rache we’ll practice after this game.”

  Garn nodded. Though Colbey could not see him, Garn felt certain the old Renshai ha
d received his message.

  * * *

  Within a dozen moves, Santagithi had lost both rooks and both bishops to Colbey. The general’s pieces stood in random formations, without semblance of strategy.

  Seeing no reason to continue the game, Colbey swept the chessmen from the board.

  Santagithi did not flinch, which only made Colbey more sure of his decision to cut short their play. Usually, the general was nearly as cautious with the positions of his chessmen as with his soldiers. At times, he set the pieces into stalemates that he pondered for days, obsessing over the slightest movements of any one in his absence.

  Colbey looked at Santagithi. “Your mind is elsewhere. We’ll play when it comes back. What’s bothering you?”

  Santagithi stared into one of the braziers, composing his thoughts.

  Colbey leaned back, folded his hands on the chessboard, and waited. For all his years of moderating guards’ disputes, Santagithi had only rarely allowed others to share his own doubts. According to the guards, Santagithi had confided in the archer captain, Nantel, now dead, but even those exchanges had been uncommon. Gradually, Colbey’s forthrightness and ability to see the world from a general’s perspective was making him as much Santagithi’s friend as his citizen. Though he knew he could probably search Santagithi’s mind for answers, Colbey refrained. It was a discourtesy he did not use on enemies and would not inflict on friends. Except on rare occasions, the only thoughts Colbey read had wafted to him without intention or warning.

  “I’ve spent a lifetime guessing men’s moods. I know when my soldiers are working too hard and need some time for play. I know when they’re playing too much and have lost the fine edge that comes with practice.”

  Colbey nodded to indicate that he understood Santagithi’s point and concurred.

  Santagithi returned Colbey’s stare, coming to the point. “Garn’s bored. He’s not happy here. And if he chooses to leave, my daughter and grandson will follow him.” He did not need to add how deeply losing Rache would hurt him. Captain Jakot had told Colbey how Santagithi had sunk into the depths of grief when he believed he would never see his daughter again. His wife’s death had hit him hard, and Colbey guessed that this final loss would plunge Santagithi into a despair so deep he would simply die.