“Like you?”
The captain closed his grip around the railing. “Oh no. No. I serve Trilless and goodness.” He looked up in surprise. “You know that.”
Colbey opened his mouth to deny the possibility of that knowledge. Until the previous day, he had believed in elves only as children’s legends. Then, he realized the captain referred to the memories and understanding Colbey should have had from the collective consciousness of the previous Western Wizards. If Captain did, indeed, serve Trilless, Colbey saw no reason to reveal his lack. The champion of goodness would see it as a weakness and find a way to exploit it. Still, he liked the captain, as a being and as a source of information. Although Colbey had not yet read any stray thoughts from his host, candor radiated from the elf. At the least, a Cardinal Wizard’s servant could not lie. “I try to learn as much as I can on my own. It’s not my way to rely on information gathered by others.”
The captain laughed. “Not even other Wizards?”
The bitterness returned. “Especially not other Wizards. I’ve seen the results of their mistaken conclusions.” Like everything in his life, Colbey related gathering knowledge to sword mastery. “No one becomes competent by taking shortcuts.”
Captain laughed again. “You’re talking like an elf now, you know. If we take shortcuts, we spend half our existence in boredom. Mankind always seems eager for an easier, faster way, and I can hardly blame them. You have to work with the span you have.”
Colbey shrugged. A limited lifetime only partially accounted for most people’s search for the quick and simple, but he saw no reason to malign his fellows. Again, he steered the conversation back on track. The mythology described the lighter breed of elves as capricious and silly. Colbey saw little of that in Captain, but the elder did seem to have a knack for driving conversations on tangents. “So you serve Trilless.”
“I do.”
“Yet you’re transporting us, even though our cause, neutrality, conflicts with hers.”
“I transported Carcophan before you. He’s already waiting for you on the Meeting Isle.”
Colbey rested his goblet on the railing, brows raised. “You, a minion of good, transported the champion of all evil?”
“More than once.”
“If I had known about your loyalties, I’d have never boarded with that storm brewing. Doesn’t Carcophan worry that you’ll drown him or slaughter him in his sleep? At least that you’d leave him in the wrong place?”
Captain shook his head vigorously, the red-brown hair flying. Surrounded by a wild mane, his not-quite-human features looked even more animal-like. “First, there’s not much that can hurt a Cardinal Wizard. You know that. Second, as a close minion of one of the Wizards, I’m bound by the same laws. Trilless can’t directly harm Carcophan. And neither can I. Of all the Wizards’ vows, Odin made that the most binding.”
Captain’s words reminded Colbey of the very reason he had no wish to become a Cardinal Wizard. He frowned. “So, when I complete these tasks, I’ll become bound by the same monstrous list of dos and don’ts as the others.”
“Certainly.” Captain drained his glass, questioning Colbey with his expression as well as his words. “If by monstrous you mean large, that’s true. If by monstrous you mean awful, then you sadly misinterpret the truth. Perhaps you should learn to rely more on your predecessors.”
Colbey made a thoughtful noise by way of reply.
Captain’s look went from quizzical to concerned. “Odin wrote these laws and created the system of the Cardinal Wizards. Surely he had the best interests of men and gods in mind.”
“Surely,” Colbey admitted easily. “Millennia ago. Times and situations change.”
The statement walked the fine edge of blasphemy. “Don’t you think Odin has the knowledge to guess the future and its needs?”
“Yes. To a point.” Colbey borrowed the words of a song he had heard long ago, called “Sheriva and the Blue-nosed Fly” and sung by the bard who was also the guardian of the high king in Béarn. Then, the words had only seemed interesting. Now, he recalled them verbatim, and they became eerily appropriate:
“To the immortal, centuries pass like months;
But the shortest-lived see every moment’s glory.
It is they who first notice the need for change
And they who adapt most quickly to it.”
The translation from the Eastern to the Northern tongue lost the rhyme, but the message came through as clearly.
The captain balanced his wine on the gunwale. “Perhaps I’ve had too much of this, but I’m not certain of your point. You’re saying that perhaps it’s time Odin reconsidered the system of the Cardinal Wizards.”
“Yes.”
“But it’s worked so well for so long. Why do humans feel the need to mend things that aren’t damaged?”
Now, Colbey laughed, though the sound was strained. “Perhaps it’s our strange habit of living every moment we have. Or maybe surviving moment to moment allows us to see the detail that immortals miss. I do know this.” Wind howled across the stern, plucking the lines into humming dances. Colbey raised his voice. “All of the other Wizards tried to destroy me, based on a misconception. Now, we’re perched on Ragnarok’s brink. One way or another, something has to change.”
Captain threw a worried glance at the sail, apparently weighing whether to unfurl it or chance the storm he needed to navigate the final journey to the Wizards’ Island. “And you’re going to affect that change?”
“Only if I refuse the tasks.”
Captain took the goblet from Colbey’s hand, pouring the remainder of the golden liquid over the railing. “Now I know it’s you, not me, who’s had too much. If you refuse the tasks, you leave yourself vulnerable to mortal weapons. My experience with humans, though small, tells me that you have fewer years than I have fingers on one hand. If that long.”
“I’m not afraid of death.”
“I’m sure you’re not.” The captain balanced Colbey’s glass beside his own. “But if you’re dead, there’s little you can do to cause those changes you seem to feel are so necessary.”
“Are you giving a Cardinal Wizard advice?”
“No.” Captain replied defensively, paused, then laughed. “Yes, I guess I am. As long as I’m doing so, I might as well do a competent job of it. I don’t know exactly what happens during the Tasks of Wizardry, but I do know this. It involves battles, both external and internal. And it involves choices. Remember, each Cardinal Wizard may spend centuries seeking out and choosing his apprentice. And they do. It’s only in each Wizard’s best interests to make his or her line stronger and more powerful through the millennia. Yet, despite the caution of their selection and training, fewer than half of those chosen survive the tasks. The worst that can happen to you during those tasks is death. If you refuse the many laws and oaths that bind the Cardinal Wizards, I imagine that you will fail the tasks. The result of that is death. You say you don’t fear death. So what are you risking?”
Colbey rested both hands on the railing, using his body to shield the cut glass goblets he would hate to see the wind destroy. The darkness had thickened, and Colbey could no longer see the waves that lashed at the Sea Seraph’s hull. Much about the Cardinal Wizards and their honor bothered him, but the Captain’s questions helped him organize his thoughts and find the deeper reason buried beneath the others. Being bound by law never bothered him; the Renshai had a code of honor more restrictive than any he knew, and he followed it with a devotion that left little room for doubts. Arbitrary rules had no place in Colbey’s fierce heart, yet his own religion guided him to trust ones created by Odin, no matter how long ago. Buried beneath all of his bitterness and concern for the Cardinal Wizards’ responsibilities and competence lay the crux of his discomfort. “When a Cardinal Wizard chooses his time of passing, his memories are passed to his successor.”
The captain nodded slightly, the movement nearly swallowed by the darkness.
“What about h
is soul?”
“His soul?”
Colbey read discomfort in the elf’s tone. He stood in silence while the captain stalled.
“My research leads me to believe a Wizard’s soul is . . . well . . .”
“Well?”
The elf’s words cut through the blackness. “Utterly destroyed.”
“Utterly destroyed.” The phrase sat in Colbey’s ears, unable to penetrate further. His mind had to focus on each syllable individually, define each word separately before the implications became clear. Then rage speared through him, as ugly as the threatening storm. Like all Renshai, he had clutched a sword from the day his tiny fingers could close around a hilt. His first word had been “war,” his only long-term goal to die in valorous combat and earn his place, beside his namesake, in Valhalla. Unless I fight the title, the decision of one dying Wizard will cost me my soul.
The idea sparked an even deeper anger, one that washed Colbey’s vision red and made the gusts and darkness seem to disappear. He thought of the decades of crashing steel, of pitting only skill against the guile and armor of the Renshai’s enemies. He thought of the daily practices, the time stolen from sleep and food and friendship to hone his abilities and demonstrate his faith and devotion to the Renshai’s goddess. He thought of the throbbing agony of muscles torn and wounds healing, daily driving himself beyond exhaustion for the honor of serving the gods in Valhalla when war finally claimed him. All stolen from him at once.
Despair eased through the outrage, bringing with it a responsibility that Colbey could not deny. He had raised his skill to a degree that thwarted death. Honor bound him to fight every combat to the limit of his ability. Yet it was the very skill that came from experience and giving his all that had made him too competent to die in the battles he sought. Without the Western Wizard’s interference, Colbey knew he would almost certainly have succumbed to age. And that would have condemned him to Hel as surely as cowardice.
My soul for the chance to make the changes I believe necessary not only to avert the Ragnarok, but also to keep our world from becoming as static as death. As grand as the prize was, Colbey dreaded the cost. One thing he knew for certain: he needed to do a lot of thinking. And, just as on the battlefield, he would have to do it quickly.
CHAPTER 3
The Scene in the Pica
A dying glaze of sunlight filtered through cracks in the base of Stalmize’s cobbler shop, diffusing into the cramped darkness beneath the building. Pain pounded every muscle of Khitajrah’s body. Her neck felt on fire from sleeping in the same curled position for the last two nights. The niche in the building’s base that served as her hiding place left her no room to move or turn, and the urge to stretch had become an obsession. For three days, she had watched the city’s crowds scurry about their business, dwindle to a trickle, then give way to only the ceaseless, pacing search of Stalmize’s guardsmen. Now, as evening again gave way to darkness, she knew she would have to leave the tight safety of the hole.
Khitajrah’s belly felt pinched and empty. Now that she had awakened, it gnawed incessantly at itself, reminding her that she had not eaten in days. Licking at the condensation on the boards had kept thirst at bay, but it did not ease the burning in her throat. Throughout her second day, smashed and aching beneath the shop, she had counted the patterns of the watch, noting that their search had become more haphazard and lax. That night, their patterns had grown farther apart, less tight. Apparently, they had turned the bulk of the troops elsewhere, guessing that she had escaped the city of Stalmize. Khitajrah hoped the guards had become sparser and even less alert this night.
Cautiously, ears attuned for movement, Khitajrah Harrsha’s-widow backed through the crack and into Cobbler’s Alley. Each movement rippled pain through her limbs, and a sensation of swirling pins and needles nearly felled her. She gritted her teeth, bulling through the many aches returning blood flow caused. In time, she knew, she would feel much better for the change in position. She drew her head out of the confining, damp darkness.
Once free, Khitajrah studied the alleyway. She found it unexpectedly bright, the dull gray of sunset rather than the moonlit night she had expected. She hesitated, at a crouch, as the throbbing settled into a quiet numbness. Too early. There might still be stragglers on the streets. She glanced back into the yawning blackness of her cubbyhole, hating the sight of it. Just the thought of crawling back into that self-imposed prison reawakened the ache of tortured muscles. She would rather take her chances on the street. She rose, the movement awakening soreness in her chest, abdomen, and neck that only time and food could heal. She pressed into the shadows of the wall, weaving a careful path along the cobbler’s shop.
As Khitajrah reached the mouth of the alley, she heard booted footfalls clomping between the buildings.
Guards. Khitajrah flattened against the wall, waiting for them to pass. She had no doubt that every member of the city guard, and perhaps all of Stalmize’s citizens, had been instructed to kill her on sight. She cringed, wondering how many innocent women had lost their lives because they resembled her or had once been her friends. Eastern law already allowed rape, murder, and other violence against its women. She hated the idea that the Eastlands’ most cruel would use her disappearance as an excuse for their coldblooded pleasure, but she dismissed the thought. People who would hold her crimes against all women would find other excuses to inflict their brutality. If not over her, they would simply find a different justification.
The guards passed, their footfalls fading to dim thumps that became eerily distanced from their echoes. Knowing the street they had just vacated would be safe until the next patrol, Khitajrah hurried out into it. Almost immediately, she collided with a boy moving as quickly in the opposite direction. Momentum sprawled them both. His woven sack fell, spilling bread and vegetables. From a broken crock, milk washed in pulses over the cobbles.
For an instant, they stared at one another. The boy’s eyes widened in recognition. His lips parted.
Khitajrah moved first. Leaping over the scattered foodstuffs, she seized the child’s arm, hauling him to his feet. The boy started a scream that Khitajrah’s hand clamped to silence. “Quiet. Not a sound.”
The boy struggled madly, doubling over to pull her off-balance, kicking backward at her legs.
Khitajrah sidestepped beyond his wildly flailing feet. “Be still. I’m not going to hurt you.”
The boy twisted in her grip.
Khitajrah swore. Keeping her arm wrapped around the boy, she made a quick search of his pockets. Ignoring coins, marbles, and string, she found and drew his utility knife. She pressed the blade to his throat. “Be still, damn it. I’m not kidding. One more movement and I might just open your throat.” It was an idle threat. Hunted and condemned to death, Khitajrah had no legal reason not to add murder to her list of capital crimes; but the pain of losing her own son still ached within her. She would not take the innocent child of another woman or man.
The boy froze in place.
Khitajrah glanced around the familiar street of the shopping district. Plain, flat-topped buildings stood, wedged between the crumbling minarets and spires of the older architecture. Streets radiated like the legs of a spider. Ancient roads crossed, branched, and fused with newer, making every part of the city look like a central square. All of the shops lay dark and closed for the night. “I won’t hurt you. All I want is a promise that you won’t scream.”
The boy made a muffled sound beneath Khitajrah’s hand.
“Just nod if you agree not to scream.”
The boy hesitated. Then he made a slow, solid movement with his head.
Khitajrah released him.
The instant she freed him, the boy broke into a sprint, shrieking at the top of his lungs.
“Damn you.” Hunger got the better of Khitajrah. She snatched up a slender, brown loaf of bread from the scattered remains of abandoned groceries, then ran in the other direction, ducking into a narrow alleyway. Shoving the bread into
her belt and the knife into a pocket, she looked for one of the more decorative buildings. The tailor’s shop, with its ledges and gargoyles, seemed the best choice. Using the cracked masonry and stone ornaments for toeholds, she clawed her way toward the rooftop.
Footsteps bounced through the maze of the East lands’ royal city, all converging on the boy’s cries for help. As the shouts and pounding drew closer, Khitajrah quickened her pace. Jagged edges of rock tore at her fingers. Her cloth shoes protected her toes, though they made purchase more difficult. Her left foot slipped. The remains of a ledge tore a hole in the cloth. The sudden jar of weight on her hands opened the knife wound across her fingers, and blood trickled along her fingers. She bit off a gasp of pain, flailing for a new toehold. The shoe flopped, useless on her foot. It slid nearly free.
“This way!” A bass voice rumbled through the alleyway, and running footsteps followed.
Khitajrah froze in place, toes cinched around the dangling shoe. Afraid to move, she rolled her gaze downward. Half a dozen guardsmen with swords bustled along the roadway beneath her. A cramp settled across Khitajrah’s toes, raw agony. She felt the shoe slip further. She forced her grip tighter, silently mouthing a fervent prayer to Sheriva, though she expected little from a god whose laws had brought her to this state.
“Over here!” The guards passed beneath Khitajrah, making the correct turn into the street, though the boy’s screams had ceased.
The shoe plummeted to the cobbles behind them, the soft patter of cloth hitting stone lost beneath the slam and echo of their footfalls. Khitajrah groped for and found a foothold with her toes. She scrambled to the roof.
Once there, Khitajrah gnawed at the bread, staring out over the city of her birth. Despite its familiarity, it looked strange and unwelcoming. The flowering mazes seemed without beginning or end, and the town itself spread cancerlike tendrils throughout what had once been woods and countryside. In the decade since the war had taken more than half of the male population, the city’s sprawl had slowed. But repeated plantings of the same crops in the same fields had sucked all of the nutrients from the soil. In a constant attempt to escape the densest, oldest parts of the city, and its crumbling architecture, the citizens built more houses at the outskirts, impinging deeper onto pale, barren fields no longer able to provide sustenance. Nearly every forest had been burned or cut down to provide new land for the farmers to make as cold and sterile as their fields.
Child of Thunder (Renshai Trilogy) Page 5