Mar Lon lowered his gaze to his instrument, apparently embarrassed by the praise. Surely others had complimented his imagery before, but never a Wizard who served the gods directly. “Thank you.”
Shadimar continued. “It was a new experience for me as well. The Staff of Law showed me subtleties I never had the power or understanding to see on my own before. It could do that for you, too.”
Mar Lon looked up suddenly. “I don’t understand.”
“Someday, you could wield the Staff of Law.”
Mar Lon’s brow crinkled in confusion. He shook his head once, as if to clear it. Then he shook his head several times in quick succession, negating the possibility. “I don’t see how, sir. If the staff wouldn’t have Carcophan, I don’t see why it would accept me. Besides, it would serve the world far better in your hands.”
Shadimar’s laugh echoed between the peaks. “Of course I shall wield it for now. Your time will come.”
Mar Lon clung to his lonriset, though the instrument was securely tied in place. “Are you asking me to become your successor?” The wind turned his dark hair into a tangle, and his hazel eyes found Shadimar’s briefly, then skittered away.
“Can you think of anyone better suited?”
“Surely there’s someone. I’m not suited at all.”
“You’re too modest, Mar Lon.” That flaw did not bother Shadimar. The Tasks of Wizardry had enhanced boldness in the unpretentious, though they tended to kill the timid. Shadimar had little trouble distinguishing between the two. A coward would never have accepted the transport spell so easily nor performed before crowds as the bards were trained to do. “You understand our concerns and procedures. You’ve seen glimpses of the Seven Tasks, and I feel confident you could survive them. You know enough swordplay to stand against Colbey, at least for a time.”
Mar Lon flushed, still holding the lonriset. “You flatter my weapon skill immensely. Even if I could stand against the prince of Renshai for a time, I would choose to avoid that situation. I’ve dedicated my life to peace, through my music and the way I live.” Cursed to teaching and giving complicated replies only with his music, Mar Lon launched into song. His fingers flickered over the strings, as lightly as leaves fluttering in a summer breeze. The chords that pealed forth sounded fuller than any Shadimar had heard, except from others in the line of bards. The notes rang with a purity that matched Mar Lon’s perfect ear for pitch, the sound not straying a quarter tone, even long after the string’s plucking.
After a short introduction, Mar Lon’s voice joined the music’s flawlessness, spanning three octaves, at times, between single notes. He sang of peace between peoples, calling on animals, forests, and nature for imagery. The pictures he painted with words drew mental visions as solidly real as any artist’s paintings or carvings. The song soothed, its tones turning from early discordancy to a crystalline beauty that intertwined notes like lovers. The message stressed tolerance of all men’s views as well as the settling of those differences through speech instead of war.
As it continued, the melody and message unnerved Shadimar, and he grew impatient with the five verses and choruses that answered a question Mar Lon could have addressed with a sentence. Odin’s curse upon the first bard and his line demanded they express themselves to mortals in song, but that rule did not apply to immortals. Among the Cardinal Wizards or gods, Mar Lon could speak freely. This time, he had chosen not to.
The last notes scattered into Béarn’s spring air, the crags bouncing imperfect echoes that detracted from the song. Shadimar did not wait for Mar Lon to lower his instrument. “I’m not asking you to attack Colbey. I’m certainly not asking you to stand against him alone or directly. Taking on the responsibilities of Wizardry means giving up personal concerns, but it doesn’t require you to abandon personal honor. In fact, serving law can only concentrate faith and principles.” Shadimar drove home his point. “When’s the last time you saw any Cardinal Wizard dive into battle, violently or otherwise?” He added quickly, “Excepting Colbey, of course.”
Mar Lon let his lonriset go loose on its tie. “I know you’re right.”
Excitement pulsed through Shadimar, enhanced by the staff. Secodon barked once. “So you’ll become my apprentice?”
“No,” Mar Lon said. “I can’t.”
Shocked by the reply, Shadimar found himself at a momentary loss for words. He recovered nearly instantly. “Certainly you can.”
“I can’t.” Again Mar Lon raised his instrument to explain.
Shadimar laid a heavy hand on the bowl, pressing the lonriset to its resting position. “You don’t need that. You can speak with me without limitation.”
“I’m sorry. It’s as much habit as curse anymore.” Mar Lon seemed to run out of words then, and he reached for the lonriset again. “I can express myself better this way.”
Shadimar kept his palm on the instrument, irritated by time constraints and new responsibilities. “Talk. I’ve more important matters to attend than wasting my time listening to your concerts. Why can’t you serve the world as those competent to become Wizards have the obligation to do? Would you rather I sent a thousand less able mortals to their deaths trying to succeed at tasks made for ones such as me and you?”
“Me and you?” Mar Lon repeated with obvious incredulity. Unable to play, he seemed uncertain where to place his hands. His fingers darted from nervous strokes at his dark hair to his sword hilt. Whatever his proclivity toward peace, the bard’s training had made him a competent warrior. “You flatter me.”
“It’s not my job or intention to flatter. Only to serve the world within the confines of Odin’s Law.” The last of Shadimar’s patience evaporated. “If personal honor and privilege are not enough, do it for the good of the world. The world stands on the brink of destruction, and it needs your guidance. How can you refuse that?”
Secodon watched Mar Lon with the same interest as his master did.
Running out of places to fret, Mar Lon trapped his hands in his pockets. “I think you overestimate the value of my guidance, though I’ve hardly kept it from the world. I’ve traveled from Blathe to the Western Plains, from the twin cities to Stalmize, spreading the messages of peace and tolerance. But the bard’s curse limits me to song. Could you imagine a general and his officers detailing strategy in four part harmony? How can I lead men when I can’t even speak with them?”
Shadimar saw the way around Mar Lon’s handicap. He wedged his staff into a crevice for support, then leaned heavily upon it. “Your voice and your talent are a god-given gift. With a little training in the arts and the knowledge of my predecessors, you might create a new form of magic using music. The possibilities are limitless.” A vast new plain seemed to open in Shadimar’s thoughts, and the future became boundless and unbridled. Excitement thrilled through him. Mar Lon’s ability could add a whole dimension of power to the Eastern Wizards’ reign. The staff tingled with a joy of its own, its support tangible. Even more than Shadimar, it wanted Mar Lon’s acquiescence.
“No,” Mar Lon said. He lowered his head, his hands balling to fists in his pockets.
The reply caught Shadimar by surprise, and his dream seemed to fragment around him. He felt a hot splash of rage that seemed to originate from the staff. “No to what? What do you mean by ‘no’?”
Secodon whined.
“I mean ‘no,’ Shadimar.” Mar Lon’s gaze played over the distant spires. “I mean that I respect the offer and I’m honored that you even considered me.” Now the bard fixed his gaze on Shadimar, meeting the ancient, gray eyes bravely. “But I cannot and will not become the next Eastern Wizard.”
It was an honor no man or woman had ever refused, and Shadimar stood in an awkward, ugly silence. Anger pulsed through him in waves as solid as gale-tossed ocean.
Freeing his hands, Mar Lon again clutched the lonriset. He ducked through the leather strap that bound the instrument, needing the musical support to explain his decision. Balancing the bowl on one knee, he placed
his fingers with practiced skill. The left depressed strings, skipping from chord to note with a dancer’s grace. The right sounded out the notes with mellow confidence. After a short introduction, he launched into song, the lyric beauty of his tones putting the instrument to shame:
“Odin’s laws constrain us all
To tasks we must fulfill—”
But Shadimar wanted none of it. Impulsively, his wrinkled hand slapped the lonriset. Though light, the suddenness of the movement drove the ten-stringed instrument from the bard’s hands.
Secodon leapt aside, clearly startled.
Mar Lon made a muffled noise of horror, trying to catch the instrument in midair. He managed only to send it into a spin. It crashed to the mountain stone, amid a loud cacophony of splintering wood and chiming strings. The awful discordance slapped echoes from peak to peak, and the silence that followed seemed as complete as death.
Guilt and rage warred within Shadimar, and the staff supported the latter.
“No,” Mar Lon whispered. He dropped to his knees, oblivious to the stone tearing gashes in his breeks and flesh. He caught the lonriset, examining the damage with moist, anguished eyes. His jaw clamped closed so tightly his cheeks twitched, and his hands fluttered over the mangled wood. Two pairs of strings had snapped, one side of the bowl had been staved in, and a tuning stake had broken off at the base. He clutched the instrument for a time, then lowered it back to the ground like a soldier long past the skills of a healer. “Why did you do that? How could you do that?” His dark, green-flecked eyes flashed, meeting Shadimar’s with none of his previous trepidation.
Shadimar considered his reply, trying to sort through the boil of emotion for the right words. He had not intended to destroy the lonriset, yet experience warned him not to allow his actions to appear unplanned or foolish. He would not pay the price for impetuousness with dignity. His own abrupt movement had caught even himself by surprise. It did not fit his methods nor his deeply ingrained pride to do anything reckless. Yet, once done, he had little choice but to defend it. “I asked you not to play, Mar Lon.”
Mar Lon hugged the remains of his lonriset to his chest. Tears brimmed in his eyes. He looked away, lowering his head.
Shadimar softened, hating the pain he had inflicted but concerned that Mar Lon’s refusal would cause far worse. “I didn’t expect you to lose your grip. I’m sorry it’s broken. But I hope even you can see the irony of weeping over a construct of wood, steel, and gut while refusing the chance to keep mothers from crying over their babies. It’s the curse of Ragnarok to pit brother against brother; sons will rape mothers and fathers daughters. The heavens will run with the blood of gods.”
Mar Lon’s back heaved.
Secodon brushed against the bard, nose questing for his face in sympathy.
“We can build a hundred lonrisets, lutes, and mandolins. The gods and mankind cannot be replaced.” The sentiment rang hollow, even to Shadimar. Though he tried to stay with his point, his mind explored the knowledge that had come with the idea of music as magic. Logic told him that an argument could be made for destroying an imperfect world to make way for a new one, one formed from bold ideas, intelligent vision, and concept. Still, the destructiveness inherent in such a notion made the whole seem heinous and foreign, and Shadimar discarded it for now.
Mar Lon wiped tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. He did not look up. Grief and the surrounding crags muffled his words. “I understand the significance of Ragnarok, Shadimar. More than anyone.” His head sagged further, and his reply became even more difficult to decipher.
Shadimar dropped to a crouch beside the bard.
“But Odin placed nearly as many shackles on me and my line as on the Cardinal Wizards themselves. I took the vows I took, and the fact that they were inflicted on me by bloodline makes them no less sacred. In fact, it makes them more sacred.” Mar Lon looked up briefly, and red vessels already marred the whites of his eyes. “My loyalties lie, first and foremost, with King Sterrane. That’s a duty I won’t sacrifice.”
“It’s a minor concern.” Shadimar persisted, goaded by the staff. “Once you become a Wizard, your life will outspan Sterrane’s by centuries.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Mar Lon allowed the lonriset to slip from his hands, and it rang against the stones. “Whether for a year or for a moment, I can’t stand against what he represents.”
The suggestion behind the words shocked Shadimar. “The king of Béarn stands for neutrality and the West. By the gods, I raised him myself. How could his views clash with your becoming my apprentice?”
Mar Lon rose, leaving the shattered instrument on the stones. “Because the neutrality that Sterrane represents isn’t a force that can be championed. It’s a lack of all forces or, perhaps, the presence of all forces.”
The simplicity of Mar Lon’s teachings mocked Shadimar’s centuries of knowledge. “I hardly need you to explain neutrality. I’ve championed it for almost two centuries and my predecessors for millennia before me.”
“You did. And they did.” Mar Lon scooped up his instrument, carrying it in the crook of one arm. “But not anymore. From the moment you accepted the Staff of Law, you became its champion in the same way Carcophan upholds evil and Trilless good.”
Shadimar stared. “That’s ridiculous, Mar Lon.”
“Is it?”
“Of course it is. It’s an inappropriate comparison. You can’t correlate good and evil with law and chaos. Without law, there is no good or evil. Our world is law. Chaos has its own world. Here, it would destroy the very fabric of the universe.”
Mar Lon back-stepped, as if fearing Shadimar might harm his lonriset again, though the damage was already done. “Colbey made a good case for balance.”
“What!” Though he had once contemplated the possibility himself, now the idea that anyone might seriously consider Colbey’s proposal rattled and outraged Shadimar and his staff. “Surely you didn’t buy his rationalizations. He’s as mad as his chaos. And he doesn’t have any knowledge from which to draw but his own, as sparse and inaccuracy-riddled as it is.”
Mar Lon drove his point home. “You sound exactly like Carcophan talking about Trilless.”
Shadimar held rage in check from long decades of practice. The staff intervened. Odin’s Laws demand that the Cardinal Wizards kill any creature espousing chaos. Shadimar had little choice but to define Mar Lon’s intentions. “Are you saying that you believe we should allow chaos on the world of law?”
Mar Lon shook his head, taking another backward step. “What I believe has no significance. I’m as bound to serve consummate neutrality as you are law. For me to forsake that loyalty would be to violate the very law you claim to uphold. Odin determined my course long ago, free of my personal biases. Because we do live on a world of law, I would have to break oaths to champion it. Then, I would make it the poorest proponent indeed.”
Shadimar saw much sense in Mar Lon’s argument, though a nagging in the back of his mind suggested that he had missed the deeper loopholes. Before he could argue the matter further, Shadimar wanted to mull it over first. One thing seemed certain: he needed solitude. “Very well, Mar Lon, though I think you’re drawing a distinction where it doesn’t exist. I’ll find another to become my apprentice. Let all those who die in the coming wars weigh heavily upon your conscience.” With that, Shadimar waved a hand. The necessary incantation coursed through his mind, and he transported himself and his wolf to the safety of his ruins.
CHAPTER 15
Aristiri Song
Colbey awakened disoriented, opening his eyes to a close grayness that seemed warm, dry, and secure. He lay upon blankets piled on the floor, his body forming a hollow among the cloth. Patterns of light and shadow alternated on a craggy ceiling formed from natural stone, and the room contained little in the way of furniture. A desk occupied the opposite corner, near the door, simple but sturdy, with a matching chair. On the wall above it, shelves rose in two rows. Books stood in a neat line,
gingerly placed and arranged from tallest to shortest. An eye studied Colbey from over the shelves. Catching light from beyond the open doorway, it glowed red.
Red. Suddenly shocked fully awake, Colbey sat up. The abruptness of his movement flashed pain through his entire body. He knew from experience that most animal eyes shone green or amber at night. Still, no human could fit, crammed above the books, and it bothered him that even a change in position had not brought the second eye into view. He had once seen a blue-eyed cat whose eyes gleamed red in darkness, and he had heard that skunks’ and foxes’ did the same. Colbey studied the area above the books. The creature there bore no white markings to reveal it, but Colbey’s intense scrutiny carved shape from random blackness.
Bird. It’s a large bird. The form explained the single eye, and Colbey presumed he faced the same aristiri that had followed him from Captain’s ship. He tried to recall the color that bird eyes usually reflected at night, only to draw a blank. Other than nighthawks and owls, he had never seen or heard of birds doing anything after sundown except sleeping. And the owl eyes he had seen shone gold.
Once identified, Colbey turned his attention from the bird, and memory came to him in a painful rush. He remembered staggering southward over stony beach and into evergreen forest. He recalled a need to collapse there and sleep, but something had driven him onward, something with a sharp beak and talons and wings that buffeted like a street fighter’s fists. The crawl through the forests became a blur of forward movement, and memory of the mountain passes came only in broken pictures. Somehow, he had made it to the Western Wizard’s cave. And that somehow, he believed, now perched on the shelves above the desk.
Maybe there is something to this Wizard/bird rapport. Colbey tried to think of the hawk as a feathered Secodon, but the comparison would not fit. The wolf seemed far more pet than guardian, no different than a farmer’s obedient dog except that it seemed to read and reveal the Eastern Wizard’s moods. Clearly, this aristiri had some intelligence and agenda of its own. Either that, or I’m making far too much out of this.
Child of Thunder (Renshai Trilogy) Page 26