Khitajrah lowered her head, the tangled black locks falling into her eyes. Though she hated the ugliness the Eastern men inflicted upon its women, she could not help feeling a loyalty to the culture she had known since birth. For all of its evil, the Easterners lived by a rigid code of honor, ruled by a strict morality that the warlike Northmen considered immorality. Any man who wished to better his life or his lot could do so as long as it did not impinge on his neighbors, unhindered by the myriad ties to family and colleagues that burdened Northmen. Self-interest, the key to Eastern society, bore the name evil; while the Northmen’s bonds to family and community made them good. In a way, Khitajrah believed, evil was another name for personal freedom. At least for the Eastlands’ men.
Khitajrah knew that the Eastlands had honor, too, that every society lived within its rules. Only in her lifetime had lies, theft, and betrayal come to exist, and they had only become more than a shockingly rare occurrence since the Great War. Not so long ago, she could have trusted anyone’s promise not to scream.
Khitajrah took larger bites of bread, the first morsel fueling a hunger that made the plain loaf taste honey-soaked. She could not recall having eaten anything so delicious, though she scarcely chewed in her rush to swallow. She glanced over the side of the building where a host of guardsmen examined the scattered remains of the boy’s groceries. Suddenly, the boy’s indiscretion had turned from danger to distraction. Smiling, Khitajrah stuffed the last of the loaf into her mouth and headed down the opposite side of the building.
* * *
Waves slammed the Sea Seraph’s hull, tossing the ship like flotsam. Her captain raced from one end of the slippery deck to the other, securing sails, clutching at the tiller, and lashing stray items to the rail. Poised at the bow, Colbey marveled at the agility of the elf trotting across his rollicking ship. Water darkened the captain’s jerkin. His silk pantaloons had become dirty and tattered. Still, a smile graced his angular features.
The deck bucked like a half-broken stallion. Captain lost his footing, tumbling toward the deck. Colbey sprang forward, catching the elf just before he fell. The captain grunted his thanks, staggered to his feet, and dove for the jib sail as it tore free of its mounting.
Colbey’s time sense told him that morning should have arrived, yet the clouds choked out the sun more completely than they had the moon. Darkness veiled the sky from end to end, broken by a sudden, jagged flash of lightning that revealed a shape in the distance.
Colbey shouted. “I—” Thunder crashed, and the old Renshai saved the remainder of his sentence until the sound rumbled to a conclusion. “I saw something ahead!” Even without the thunder, the gale hurled the words back into his face. The slap of waves against the hull and the pounding drumbeat of the rain swallowed his cry. He could see the object more clearly now, a shimmering haze that stretched from sea to sky.
Somehow, the captain heard Colbey. He came up beside the Renshai and screamed a scarcely audible reply. “That’s it!” He had spoken in the Western tongue, but he quickly switched to Northern. “Man the rudder, and set a course for it.” The elf lurched for the cabin, where Shadimar and his wolf had been left sleeping. Surely, the storm had awakened the Eastern Wizard, but he had wisely chosen to remain below decks.
Colbey fought his way aft across the wave-washed planks. The deck pitched, tossing him against the rail. A jagged burst of lightning lit his path, revealing the dark bulk of the tiller. He lunged for it, catching it in both fists, then slammed it against the stern. The bow lurched through mist and rain, leaping for the glowing curtain. A pulse of white light blinded Colbey, and he closed his lids against pain. Almost immediately, the sea went calm, as if the storm had never existed.
Colbey opened his eyes, seeing only the colored afterimages the flash had carved onto his vision. He stared at the tiller, waiting for the brilliant circles to fade. When they did, he turned his gaze to a sky as smooth and blue as a sapphire. The sun blazed down on the Sea Seraph. The sea mirrored the deep, rich color of the sky. A breeze filled the sails, and the sun warmed the deck. Under ordinary circumstances, Colbey would have found the change pleasant. Now, the breeze cut through his soggy tunic, its dryness icy cold. He huddled over the tiller, with no idea in which direction to take the tiny ship.
The captain emerged from the cabin. “Splendid, Colbey. Thank you. Go get some comfortable clothes. You’ll need them.”
Colbey accepted the invitation, letting the cryptic warning that had followed pass unchallenged. He trotted below decks.
Shadimar glanced up from a thick tome that rested on the table. Secodon stood, tail wagging, beside his master. “Ah, Colbey. Good morning. I trust that you got a good night’s rest before you went to help our captain with his ship?”
“Good enough,” Colbey replied, though he had not slept at all. Many times in his life he had become engrossed in creating new sword maneuvers, or perfecting old ones, and day had passed to night, then back to day without his knowledge. He knew that, forced to face matters of any importance, he would find the strength and alertness he needed. Fatigue only made him less patient with long-winded liturgies from self-important speakers, simple matters twisted into emergencies by alarmists, and insincere politeness. Unfortunately, Colbey knew that a meeting with the Cardinal Wizards would probably mean dealing with all three things.
“Good.” Shadimar closed the book. “You’ll need your wits about you. To understand the nature of the tasks before you . . .”
Colbey tuned the lesson out, not even granting the Eastern Wizard the occasional grunt to acknowledge his words, if not his points. He walked to the foot of his cot, swung his pack onto the rumpled covers, and pawed through it for a dry shirt and breeks. The true measure of the tasks would come when he faced them. Until then, the Cardinal Wizards could talk about them forever. And Colbey suspected that they probably would.
A stroke of rebellion drove Colbey to choose the flashiest garb he carried: a red silk shirt, black breeks, and a wide sash to hold his swords. He pulled them on quickly, shoving both of his sheathed longswords through the loop on his right hip. Like all Renshai, he had trained equally with both hands, working one harder whenever it lagged behind the other.
Shadimar trailed off into silence, studying Colbey’s choice of costume with obvious disapproval, though he said nothing about it. “I presume the ship’s sudden steadiness means we passed through the portal?”
“That depends on whether ‘passing through the portal’ means suffering a stab of light that probably destroyed my sight until I’m a hundred.”
Shadimar smiled. “That would be it.”
“You could have warned me.”
“What? And miss your endearing sarcasm?”
“Mmmm.” Colbey let Shadimar’s cutting witticism pass. He spread his wet clothing across the cot to dry. “Why is it you feel the need to detail the importance of the Tasks of Wizardry into infinity, but little things like blinding agony and souls becoming destroyed utterly slip your huge, perfect, Wizard mind?”
Shadimar rose, stretching his long, lean frame delicately and with dignity. He stood nearly a head taller than Colbey. The Renshai maneuvers relied on quickness instead of strength, and Colbey was not large in height or breadth. Still, he guessed that he probably outweighed the ancient Wizard who now answered his accusation. “When you become my age and you are burdened with the lives of thousands of men, present and future, the survival of the world itself, and the wishes of the gods, you may understand.”
Colbey snorted. Suddenly, he thought he understood the gods’ decision to allow mortals less than a century of life. Any more time would make the differences between elders and youths so great, they would lose any possibility for coherent communication. He wondered how the elves managed, guessing he would find the answer in the cyclical nature of their lives and deaths. Perhaps, their world simply did not change as quickly. “You may have outlived me by a century or two, but don’t mistake me for a teenager. And what does it mean to �
�pass through the portal’?”
Secodon stood, yawning, stretching each foreleg in turn. The ship jolted, and the wolf slipped, sprawling to the deck. He scrambled to his feet, looking around, as if to find the person who had tripped him.
Colbey took the sudden movement in stride.
Shadimar caught a steadying grip on the table. “It means we entered another world, a small one that holds only the Meeting Isle and the ocean around it. And that bump means we’ve arrived.” Grabbing his pack, he strode from the cabin, Secodon trotting cautiously after him.
Colbey tossed his own pack across his shoulder, leaving his wet clothing in the Sea Seraph’s cabin to retrieve on the trip home. He followed the Eastern Wizard out onto the deck. The sun beamed down from a huge expanse of blue sky. Tide lapped at the shore and at the hull of the Sea Seraph. The captain had beached the ship on an island that Colbey could see end to end. It held a single stone building at its center that appeared nearly as natural as the weeds surrounding it. Only the perfect rectangle of its shape and the obvious door destroyed the image of an ordinary rock formation on a deserted atoll.
Colbey leapt down to the beach. Shadimar and Secodon clambered after him. Grasses scratched through the openings in Colbey’s sandals. A breeze stirred his gold-flecked, white hair. The sun shed warmth and light from a cloudless sky, uncomfortably hot to a Renshai who had so long known the frigid summers of the North. Despite the island’s simplicity, its lack of trees, birds, and insects unsettled him.
Captain appeared from around the starboard side of the ship. “All ready?”
Shadimar nodded. “Thank you, Captain.”
The elf shoved the bow free of the sand, seized the railing, and hauled himself back aboard. He waved a friendly good-bye. “When you need me, just call. I’ll come as swiftly as I can.” His gaze shifted from Shadimar to Colbey. “Good luck, Western Wizard. I’m looking forward to many more talks.”
Colbey made a brisk, but friendly, gesture of farewell. The quiet austerity of the Wizards’ Meeting Isle brought back all of the apprehension he had banished aboard the Sea Seraph. Despite Shadimar’s long-winded and too-frequent explanations, the practicalities and specific realities of the Tasks of Wizardry still escaped him. All he had were vague theories and grandiose descriptions of its deep significance to the Cardinal Wizards and to the world.
Shadimar turned toward the cottage at the center of the island. “Let’s go.” He clapped a hand to Colbey’s shoulders, the touch the first contact in a long time that felt sincere. A gesture of friendship, it did not patronize or direct. For a change, it did not seem geared to remind Colbey that he was younger or less experienced, ignorant of the wonders that came with the passage of millennia of wisdom. It was a gesture between equals, and it awakened faded memories of the time before Trilless had made her accusations against Colbey and before Shadimar had tried to kill him for a misinterpreted prophecy, a time when he and Shadimar had shared a brotherhood and a friendship.
In silence, the two men walked to the dwelling. Just before the door, Shadimar stopped and turned to face his companion. He opened his mouth, clearly to speak words of encouragement or to once more explain the significance and urgency of the tasks before Colbey. Apparently realizing another lecture would only alienate the Renshai, he echoed the captain instead. “Good luck.” Then he seized the handle of the plain, granite door and hauled it open with a creak of old hinges.
Instantly, the sweet aroma of honey, sassafras, and fresh bread assailed Colbey. Inside, a fire burned in a hearth carved into the farthest wall. Though the building lacked a chimney, no smoke obscured the room, and the fire burned without an odor. A table filled most of the remaining space. To Colbey’s left, Carcophan sat. His salt-and-pepper hair hugged his scalp, a dark contrast to his yellow-green eyes, clean-shaven face, and deeply impressed scowl. His tunic stretched taut over a bulky chest and widely-braced shoulders. His large hands rested on the table, curled closed. The frayed remnants of calluses still marred the edges of his fingers. Once, Colbey felt certain, the Southern Wizard had learned the art of war.
At the exact opposite end of the longest part of the table, a shapely woman perched on a chair. White robes fluttered around her slender form, the skirts cascading from her seat like sea foam. Long white hair framed delicate, timeless features, and her blue eyes, though watery with age, seemed kind.
One other occupied the room, a man familiar to Colbey. Mar Lon Davrinsson sat in a shadowed corner, strumming his compact, ten-stringed instrument and mouthing silent lyrics. He wore his brown hair short and without adornment. His hazel eyes rolled upward. Finding Colbey’s gaze upon him, Mar Lon smiled in greeting. Colbey stared back. The bard’s presence among somber, genteel Wizards shocked him. Experience had shown him that the Cardinal Wizards rarely lowered themselves to consort with mortals, except for an occasional champion or where the prophecies they were bound to fulfill drove them to the association.
“Mar Lon. What a pleasant surprise.” Colbey ignored the Great Wizards to address the only mortal in the room. “Why aren’t you in Béarn protecting King Sterrane?” He asked from genuine concern, not the desire for small talk. In the years before the Western high king had claimed his throne, Sterrane had traveled with Colbey and Mitrian. His simple justice and fierce loyalty had endeared him to the remaining Renshai. It had become Mar Lon’s job not only to protect King Sterrane from usurpers, but also from his own childlike innocence.
Every gaze riveted on Colbey. Shadimar’s hand slipped from the Renshai’s shoulders and gripped his arm in warning. The bard lowered his instrument, glancing from Wizard to Wizard as if seeking permission to speak.
No one addressed the question.
Apparently, Mar Lon accepted the Cardinal Wizards’ silence as consent. He sighed, placing the lonriset into playing position. Odin’s curse on his ancestors drove each eldest child, male or female, to a constant and desperate search for knowledge that he could only impart to others through his music. Though the curse did not include his dealings with Wizards, Mar Lon found it easier to respond to Colbey’s question by singing:
“A man named Jahiran became the first bard
His line cursed by Odin: Béarn’s king to guard,
All knowledge to seek and for all lore to long
But never to teach it, except in a song.
“When the great times in history are known to occur,
The current bard will be there, you I can assure.
Unless his vow to Béarn keeps him away
Then his firstborn may replace him for affairs of that day.
“As of the time this song is being written
Mar Lon the bard has yet to be smitten.
Without a marriage and with no wife to bear it
Mar Lon is damn glad that he has no heir yet.”
Despite its silliness, haphazard rhyme scheme, and obvious instantaneous authorship, the song spanned three octaves and its melody was striking. Mar Lon hit every note and chord with solid assuredness. Colbey admired the decades of constant and dedicated practice that had created a talent that all who heard enjoyed, although few could understand the bard’s sacrifice. Mar Lon had told Colbey the basis for his musical skill came from his inheritance of the bard’s curse, but Colbey knew the fine details of his talent could only be mastered through years of daily practice.
Throughout the concert, the Cardinal Wizards sat in impassive silence. Time meant little to them. Apparently, they chose to indulge the exchange between the mortal and the one of their own closest to his previous mortality. As the last notes fell from the lonriset, Trilless addressed Colbey. “Welcome, Western Wizard.”
With a last squeeze of reassurance, Shadimar strode around Trilless to a vacant side of the table, leaving the seat nearest the door for Colbey.
The old Renshai turned his gaze on the speaker. Though wrinkled, her face still held a mature beauty. Its set and the pallor of her skin revealed her Northern heritage, though her hair had gone fully silve
r. Her white robes against pale skin, locks, and eyes made her seem ghostlike and frail. In Northern society, white symbolized coldness as well as purity, and Colbey found equal amounts of both in the woman’s manner. “Spare me your insincere greetings, Trilless. The army of Northmen, Valr Kirin, and the demon you sent to kill me told me what you really think of me.”
Carcophan laughed regally.
Trilless glared, first at Colbey, then, with more venom, at her evil opposite. She returned her gaze to the Renshai, and her features softened. “A logical mistake and one I’ve come to regret. No harm done.”
“No harm done!” The cavalier dismissal outraged Colbey. “Your Northmen destroyed the city that harbored me, slaughtering its army and the finest strategist the West ever had.” Memories of Santagithi’s gutted town surfaced immediately, followed by images of the final battle in a cave in the Granite Hills. Colbey and Santagithi had held off a troop of Northern warriors to allow the last handful of Santagithi’s citizens to escape. Santagithi had died in the battle, and Colbey had spent days in coma. An angry, red scar still spanned his chest in a long diagonal. “Your Northmen hounded us across the continent. Because of you, the world lost two Renshai and two of the dearest, closest friends the Renshai ever had.” Colbey avoided the details of those others’ deaths, afraid the memories might sever his control. Until he took the oaths and vows that accompanied the Tasks of Wizardry, nothing but common sense could keep him from attacking the Northern Sorceress with a sword that could kill her. At one time, he would have cherished the opportunity. Now, he struggled against his need for vengeance for the sake of mankind and Odin’s laws.
Child of Thunder (Renshai Trilogy) Page 6