Trilless turned the page, her long, lean fingers touching lighter than a spider’s feet. The parchment sprinkled to oblivion. The uniform glow of her magic struck sparkles from the age-old dust that settled between wisps of hair on her arm. The Northern Sorceress closed her lids. The archaic language strained her eyes and her comprehension. Repeatedly, she called upon the oldest corners of her collective consciousness, finding it nearly as faded and tattered as the book. She had tried to consult the first Northern Wizard for the memory of those written words and the number of the page. Yet the seventeen Wizards who had reigned between them overpowered a granule of remembrance that had become all but obsolete.
Opening her eyes, Trilless found her gaze instantly riveted on a standard symbol in the center of the page, referring her to the bottom. A vague, foreign thought trickled through her, bringing the certainty that the information she sought was in a footnote, though not the one she had just uncovered. Hunger rumbled in her gut, and she set the book aside with a gentleness that saved every remaining page. Starvation could not kill her, but it could weaken her, and she had always thought Shadimar foolish for forgetting food for weeks at a time. Right now, I can’t afford to become frail, even for a moment. Again, doubts descended upon her, and she wondered whether she had made a mistake by bringing the White Sword of Power back into the world of mortals. For all his skill, Valr Kirin would need the Sword of Tranquillity to kill Colbey. Even that advantage might not prove enough.
Trilless rose. Once Carcophan knew the might of his soon-to-be champion, he would have to guess that the Northern Sorceress would summon the Sword to oppose him. Surely, he would know that to call the Black Sword would be folly. The Gray Sword bothered her more. Although every predecessor seemed certain that it would take the combined efforts of the Eastern and Western Wizards to create, Trilless could find nothing definite to corroborate the fact. And vivid memories from the fifth Northern Wizard told her that the initial creation of a Sword of Power required only a well-forged blade and a handful of spells. As grueling and costly as those spells were, even Shadimar had enough competence to cast them.
Trilless put that thought from her mind. She had done as she had done. Her seeking magics had tracked Colbey to Shadimar’s ruins. There, her spell could not penetrate, nor was she rude enough to try to override another Wizard’s wards. Eventually, Colbey would leave; and, eventually, Valr Kirin would kill the Renshai. In the meantime, Trilless needed to find the first prophecy of the first Southern Wizard. Once she had the words and the certainty that came with them, she would warn Shadimar that he was harboring and protecting Carcophan’s champion.
* * *
On a weed-covered plain near Shadimar’s ruins, Mitrian stood with her legs braced, a hand on her sword. Water drizzled from clouds eternally gray and stagnant, the moisture sending her hair into frizzled curls. She watched as Rache spun, drawing his sword in a sweeping block that reversed into a cut, his blade a whirling halo of steel. Teeth gritted in concentration, he surged into a broad cross sweep. The sword cut a jerky arc.
Mitrian called to her son to halt. “Keep your shoulder higher and your elbow in.” She caught his arm and demonstrated the motion. “Keep practicing.”
Rache shook sweat and rain from his hair in a spray of droplets. He launched back into the maneuver with his usual eagerness.
Satisfied that Rache understood, Mitrian turned to confront Episte. She saw only a smashed patch of weeds where the elder teen had been training. Surprise turned to rage. Both gave way to concern. “Episte?”
The young man appeared from a tall patch of grass, nearly at her feet. He clutched a woven string of daisies.
Startled, Mitrian leapt backward. “What are you doing?”
Episte tied off the stems with a twist. “I made this for you.” He handed Mitrian the flowered necklace.
Mitrian stared at the daisy chain that Episte had looped over her hand, incredulous. “Very pretty, Episte. But you’re supposed to be practicing.” Her mind raced, trying to guess how Colbey would handle the situation. To him, disrespect for a sword was the ultimate crime. She could picture his face pinched into an angry knot that threatened violence. One glimpse into his cold, blue eyes would be enough to cow her. She never needed actual punishment; her imagination had proven active enough. Experience told her that Colbey would have driven in with a series of attacks on Episte designed to humiliate him. But Colbey can do that. Mitrian did not feel secure enough that she could best Episte Rachesson, and she doubted that, in a spar against him with real weapons, either of them would escape fully unscathed. “Show me lynstreik.”
Episte looked stricken. He brushed dirt and seeds from his breeks, hefted his sword, and dropped into a readied crouch.
Mitrian watched, trying not to reveal any emotion. Lynstreik was a complicated Renshai maneuver with little practical application. She would have been hard-pressed to perform it herself.
Episte shook back hair the color of the daisies’ centers. He gave Mitrian a feeble smile, then began the requested sequence. His legs moved in near-perfect figures, as fast as Mitrian could follow. His sword wove a web of silver about his slight torso. Though his strokes lacked power, that did not detract from the beauty of his svergelse. Skill and quickness formed the basis for the Renshai maneuvers, and Episte demonstrated both. Pride welled within Mitrian, and love for the orphaned child that was the son of her hero. I only wish my Rache had this much skill. Guilt came, stabbing, with the thought. She could not begrudge Episte his talent, and Rache’s persistence would probably make him the better swordsman in the long run. That train of thought bothered her as well. Episte should be as much a son to me as Rache. Logic handed her the necessary equality, though she could not quite escape the ties of blood.
Episte held his final pose, legs low and close, the sword a steel extension of his hand in front of him, the other arm spread behind for balance. He broke the position. Flipping the sword to its sheath, he executed a respectful bow.
Mitrian studied the youth in silence, unwilling to spout encouragement after Episte’s unacceptable distraction. Nor would Mitrian speak ill of competent technique. “Good,” she said simply. “But not perfect. Agility and skill is only half the battle. Without practice, you can’t build strength and endurance, nor the necessary battle sense that allows a warrior to choose the right combat maneuver in an instant.”
Episte looked past Mitrian, and his inattentiveness hurt. Her words had pleased her, and she had hoped he would find them profound enough, at least, to listen. She gazed directly into the youth’s blue eyes, trying to draw his focus. Only then did she realize that he was not just staring through her. His stare was fixed on something behind her.
Mitrian whirled.
Colbey stood among the weeds, moving with none of the weakness and pain that had seemed so much a part of him for the last three weeks. “Well spoken, Mitrian.” Suddenly, he lowered his center of gravity, whipping through six sequential performances of lynstreik so smooth that they made even Episte look clumsy. Like the boy, Colbey held the final posture for a moment, scarcely winded despite his condition. “Skill has no limits, Episte. Every time you perform a maneuver, you improve it. If you don’t put your all into your practices, any warrior with less skill and more dedication will best you.”
Episte lowered his head, though his eyes told Mitrian he had heard the speech too many times. He shuffled off to practice.
Colbey addressed Mitrian, though his gaze remained on Episte. “Shadimar tells me that your father’s people successfully reclaimed the town.”
Mitrian smiled, pleased by the news, yet nonplussed by Colbey’s choice of words. He could have called them Mitrian’s people, but he had chosen not to, as if to emphasize that her loyalties and ties now lay elsewhere. She was Renshai. The society that had once been hers could no longer claim her.
“It’s officially called ‘Santagithi’ now, and Bromdun was unanimously voted leader. Reconstruction is already underway. And I think it’s
time for us to leave as well.”
“They couldn’t have picked a better leader.” Mitrian felt a joy untainted by bitterness. She had the memories of the town and the people she loved. For her, the village that had once been the Town of Santagithi and was now simply Santagithi could never seem the same. Always, she would feel like a stranger there. The idea of beginning a new life with her family and the Renshai filled her with excitement. “Good thing Bromdun and his archers were among the survivors. At least no one will starve.”
“Yes,” Colbey repeated, obviously considering a comment Mitrian had meant to toss off casually. “None of them will starve.”
* * *
The following morning, Colbey, Episte, Rache, Mitrian, Garn, Shadimar, and the wolf began their eastward journey. The Eastern Wizard seemed reluctant to abandon the crumbling ruins that served as his home, but Colbey found it a pleasure. He had nearly forgotten the thrill of riding amidst the play of summer breezes. Not since the day his fist could close around the hilt of sword had he missed a practice, and his coma had left him twitchy to make up for lost time. Even as they rode, he practiced sword maneuvers between the closing knot of forest branches or worked out intricate routines that took him from the horse to the ground and back in an instant.
While Colbey reveled in the journey, his companions seemed less pleased. Hemmed by endless woodlands, the group found themselves at the mercy of blood-sucking insects; their horses stomped and swished their tails through the night. Scant food remained after Shadimar’s guests had departed. Secodon disappeared daily, presumably to hunt. The Wizard seemed content to survive on the handful of berries he gathered en route, but Colbey and the others went hungry. Of them all, only Mitrian could use a bow, and only barely adequately. Her homemade creation made her even more awkward. Tempers flared, particularly Garn’s, and Arduwyn’s name came to the fore again and again. The flame-haired hunter had never allowed them to go hungry.
Colbey took the brunt of Garn’s irritability. His insistence on daily sword sessions forced them to camp well before sundown. Unable to hunt and barred from the teachings of the Renshai, Garn waited with only his rumbling gut and the Wizard for company. Since neither spoke often and they had nothing in common, Colbey guessed each spent most of his time alone. And Garn had far too much time to think.
One morning, a week into their travels, Garn approached Colbey. He looked thinner. His clothes bore days of dust and slivers of leaves and seed pods. “Teach me, too. I want to be Renshai.”
Colbey did not bother to meet Garn’s gaze. He knew that Garn’s strength could add much to the tribe. He could only guess how painful it must be for Garn to watch his wife and child trained to a skill few swordsmen could match. For too long, the ex-gladiator’s life had depended on his being the best in might, weapons, and day to day alertness. “I’m sorry, Garn. You know I can’t. The laws are specific about who I can and cannot teach the Renshai maneuvers. I will not break the vows to my people and to my goddess.” Colbey kicked his horse to a trot. For him, the matter was closed.
But Garn persisted. His horse surged forward to keep pace at Colbey’s side. “Surely your goddess will forgive a vow broken in a time of change. The Renshai have many enemies. You’ve given my wife and son those same enemies. I’ve fought for your cause, and I’ll probably die for it. Wouldn’t it serve better to have all of us skilled in the art?”
Colbey dragged on the reins, and his horse dropped back to a walk. He waited until Garn pulled up, then seized a muscled forearm. This time, he met Garn’s green gaze. “I would never call you unskilled. I’ve seen few who are not Renshai as capable with a sword and none stronger. I’m pleased and honored to have you with us, and the sire of any Renshai deserves respect.” He released Garn. “But I won’t break an oath to my people, not, at least, without the direct guidance and approval of my goddess.”
Garn bit at his lip with a sour scowl. A life of direct commands, enforced by whips and crossbows, had not prepared him for the frustration of fighting disappointment.
Colbey shook his head, not liking his decision, though he knew it was right. “I’m sorry, Garn.” Many years had passed since fury had driven Garn to attack him for monopolizing too much of Mitrian’s time. Then, Colbey had taught Garn a technique he had invented himself, an extension of the Renshai mind control that allowed Garn to focus and channel his strength. That knowledge had satisfied Garn for longer than a decade.
Garn abandoned the struggle, his lip turning white around the indentations of his teeth, and his hands stiffening on the reins. “Rache is my son. I have things I want to teach him.” He added, in reluctant afterthought. “And Episte, too.”
Garn’s reference to Episte carried a discomfort that blunted his anger. Clearly, he had doubts about training the older teen, despite his bold insistence. The concern ran deep, and Colbey guessed it stemmed from Garn’s memories of his own weapons training by the boy’s father. Throughout his life, Garn had believed his own savagery a product of Rache Kallmirsson’s teachings, and he had blamed his killing frenzies on the captain’s philosophies. Though Colbey doubted the causality, he did foresee the potential for conflict. At times, Episte’s excuses, inattentiveness, and blatant apathy drove even the eldest Renshai to the edge of frustrated violence. Better Garn’s and Episte’s relationship remain friendly and un-pressured. Colbey ran a hand through his thick, white hair and made no reply.
Garn continued. “I have a right to some of the boys’ time. They’re my—”
Colbey’s reply cut Garn short. “You’re right, of course. Why don’t you instruct Rache while I work with Episte?” Though Colbey did not know whether Garn’s demands stemmed from a sense of duty to his son, boredom, or an argumentative mood, he sincerely believed that Rache would benefit from his father’s teachings. “It’ll mean twice as much practice for Rache, because he can’t afford to back down from my lessons, but I think he can handle it.”
Garn fell silent, apparently at a loss for words. Clearly, he had not intended to win so easily.
Colbey saw the need to rescue Garn from his other dilemma as well. “As to Episte, I’m not sure there’s much you can teach him. It’s difficult enough getting him to concentrate on his swordwork. Besides, he’s small. The Renshai maneuvers rely mostly on quickness. He’ll never have the bulk to learn to perform your techniques with any competence. If you train him too well, the strokes could become habit; and he might use them in combat.” He looked up, the potential danger of his concern obvious.
“Very well, Rache only.” Garn’s tone conveyed cautious uncertainty, but his surrounding emotions betrayed relief.
Garn dropped back to discuss his triumph with his wife and son. Colbey remained at the lead, enjoying a silence broken only by the sweet trills of songbirds and the occasional haunting melody of an aristiri hawk. Twice, Colbey’s horse sent deer scrambling into the brush, too swiftly for Mitrian to think of readying her bow before they had run out of sight.
As the sun started its downward curve, Colbey searched for a place to camp and practice. The nightly routine had become a chore. He would not compromise when it came to finding a place where he could teach open space maneuvers as well as combat techniques for tightly packed forests where branches disrupted momentum and leaves mired underfoot. He felt nearly as strongly about finding a place where Garn and Shadimar could feel comfortable while the others practiced, and ground on which every member of the group could sleep.
As Colbey’s attention shifted from introspection to the specifics of the woodlands, he recognized a gradual progression of the trees. In the past few days, evergreens had become scarce, giving way to twisted hadonga, oak, and elm. In the past half day, the trees had become thinner, predominantly poplar and locust. First growth. Colbey realized they were nearing an edge of the forest.
As if to confirm his guess, the woodlands broke before him. Uneven rows of dull green corn rose from the land as far as he could see. Midsummer, the stalks cradled small, tender ears, and yell
ow-white tassels swung in the breeze.
Garn drew up beside Colbey. At the sight of food, he whooped with delight and rode into the field.
Colbey turned his horse to face the others. “Mitrian, see if you can’t find game birds or rabbits hiding among the corn.” He glanced back to the field. The stalks had closed about Garn, and only the jiggling of leaves and tassels revealed his location. “Garn,” he shouted. “Pick enough for everyone, and don’t scare away all the rabbits. When you’re ready to teach, come find us.” Colbey dismounted. Stripping off the tack, he walked along the crooked boundary between field and forest, waving for the boys to follow. “Rache. Episte.” He left Shadimar to tend the horses and oversee the camp.
While Colbey instructed Episte in the finest points of swordsmanship, Garn showed his son how to use a stick as a weapon. Later, Garn retired to help Shadimar prepare the evening meal while Mitrian practiced and Colbey instructed Rache. Gradually, the sun seemed to melt into an orange haze. The aroma of roasting pheasant and corn perfumed the air. Colbey ignored the rumbling of his gut until the lesson was finished, then swordplay ceased for a hearty meal of poultry and corn.
Relieved of their packs and tack, the horses grazed the branches and underbrush of the forest; Colbey guessed that some magic of Shadimar’s kept them from tearing up the farmer’s crop. The Renshai had never known horses to choose oak over corn, and the Wizard did seem to have a special rapport with animals. The few times that Shadimar had wandered from the party, Colbey had noticed that the animals seemed more high-strung and restless.
The Western Wizard Page 37