Child of Thunder (Renshai Trilogy)

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  The redhead mumbled as he walked, the words barely carrying to Khitajrah’s ears. “I guess that answers the question of why you’re traveling alone.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “By the way, my name’s Arduwyn. And I prefer ‘hunter’ to ‘archer.’ Obviously, I’d rather kill game than people.”

  Khitajrah ignored the underlying threat. She followed Arduwyn through a winding shock of brush to an oak-ringed clearing. There, smoke trickled from a circle cautiously surrounded by stones, and a spit held an undefined piece of meat. A round-bellied horse parted weed stems to graze on the green grass beneath. Splotches of black and white decorated its hide, the mane alternating colors, taking its hue from the skin from which it originated. A skinning knife balanced on a stone before a log the perfect size for a seat. Blood still streaked the blade. Parcels of meat lay in neat piles, one of which held only entrails, hooves, and antlers. A battered pack and the horse’s gear lay nearby.

  “We’re here,” Arduwyn announced unnecessarily, gesturing Khitajrah into the clearing. “I’ll gather kindling. There’re roots in the fire and venison on the spit. Eat as much as you want. I can cook up more. While I’m gone, feel free to change into dry clothes or do whatever else you need to do. I promise I won’t peek.”

  “Thank you,” Khitajrah said grudgingly, overwhelmed by his generosity, though irritation would not quite allow her to become fully civil. She could not forget that he had pointed an arrow at her heart.

  *Nor should you,* chaos inserted. *I don’t trust him.*

  Arduwyn turned, melting into the woods as if a part of them. Khitajrah did not hear him move. For a moment she went perfectly still, concerned that he watched her from the brush. Then she recalled how swiftly and soundlessly he had moved while luring her from path to path, except for those times when he clearly wanted her to hear him and follow. Yet she shivered in the night air, and she hated the idea of wearing a wet dress that itched and clung with every movement for one moment longer. Though she believed Arduwyn had spoken the truth, when she reached to pull the dress over her head, she felt as if dozens of unseen eyes watched her from the brush. Dismissing her fears, she removed her clothes and undergarments, spreading them before the coals to dry. The aroma of the meat struck her then. Her stomach growled a long, grinding objection.

  Chaos thrust a thought into her head. *Naked when he gets back? Why don’t you just beg him to rape you?*

  *What do you want me to do?* Khitajrah removed the spit and cautiously tore free a piece of meat. A trickle of watery grease burned her fingers, but she paid it little heed. She placed the meat in her mouth, then licked the oil from her fingers and wiped the stinging pads on the cold, wet fabric of her dress. *You know I spent all my money on food. It seemed more important than spare clothes at the time.* She continued eating the venison, and hunger allowed her to abandon decorum. *Besides, I don’t think he’ll try to rape me. He’s no bigger than me. If he tries, I’ll kill him.*

  *I’ll bet he has dry clothes in his pack.*

  *Good. If he has clothes on, he won’t try to rape me.*

  *He’s about your size. And he did say you should change into dry clothes. In fact, he said you could do whatever you needed to do. And that he had more supplies than he needed.*

  Khitajrah shoved the last of the venison into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. She wiped her hands on her dress. *I don’t think he meant for me to get into his personal gear.*

  *Why not?* chaos pressed. *He promised you food. He said he wouldn’t peek while you changed. Obviously, he didn’t expect you to sit around naked.*

  *Obviously.* Though loath to leave the coals’ warmth, Khitajrah rose. She wandered over to Arduwyn’s pack. Glancing about to make certain he had not yet returned, she looked inside. She found several dry cloaks and tunics, most brown, black, or gray. She hauled all of these out. Choosing a tunic, she donned it, drawing a cloak over her shoulders. The fabric was warm and soft against her skin, and she felt protected. Peering back into the pack, she found neat packets of jerked meat, a waterskin, two more knives, a multitude of dried herbs, and feathers. Two vials rattled in the bottom, one containing a thick, blue liquid, the other a gold fluid, equally dense. Khitajrah guessed these might hold the dyes he used for the crests on his arrows. A pouch in the bottom contained string, and a ball of gut twine lay rolled up in a rag. Khitajrah mulled over the uses she could find for his supplies. The meat would easily get her to Béarn, then to Pudar, if necessary. She could refill the waterskin. And his clothes fit her well.

  *Take it,* chaos hissed. *Take it all.*

  *What are you talking about?* Khitajrah guiltily shoved the spare clothing back on top of the remainder of the gear, shocked her intentions had seemed so shallow.

  *You know you want it. You NEED it. He owes you.*

  *He owes me,* Khitajrah repeated, knowing what chaos suggested was wrong. Yet she knew the pack contained nothing Arduwyn could not easily replace, and chaos had earlier made a point she could not refute. The Westerners did seem to have far more possessions than they appreciated. Arduwyn had stacked enough meat on the ground to feed a small village, and he clearly knew how to prepare it for travel. By his own admission, the nearest town would prove hostile to her; but he seemed to have no qualms about wandering and camping near it himself.

  Chaos encouraged, prodding similar thoughts to the fore. *Take the horse, too.* It did not dwell on the pack, obviously feeling that the mental tug of war over that had ended.

  The cruelty of the thought jarred Khitajrah’s deeply buried conscience. She knew a vague, undefinable feeling of wrongness that came from the core of her being. *No! And I’m not taking his supplies either.* She grabbed handfuls of cloak, preparing to remove it before he returned. *I shouldn’t even have taken this.* Though she believed she now chose the moral course, she could not quite bring herself to abandon the warm comfort of the linen.

  *Don’t be a fool, Khita. Don’t try to act like an ignorant child. You’ve taken food and clothing before.*

  Khitajrah defended herself. *I took things from those who had too much and gave it to women in need.*

  Chaos became jubilant with triumph. *You’re both of those things. You need these supplies; he doesn’t. It’s well within Eastern law to do for yourself anything you would do for another of your status.*

  Khitajrah frowned, convinced by chaos’ argument. *You’re right.*

  *Usually.*

  *But not the horse.*

  *Then you had best leave all. Otherwise, he’ll overtake you and probably kill you.*

  Khitajrah recoiled, her hand falling naturally to the saddle. Again, chaos had a point. Arduwyn could move silently and unseen through the forest. He had trailed her twice. Surely, he could follow the hoof tracks more easily, but he would have no way of catching her without another horse.

  *He delayed you. The horse can regain you lost time.*

  *And more. Enough to get to the meeting with Lirtensa only a few days late.*

  Chaos added nothing. Khitajrah was doing a fine job of convincing herself.

  *You’d better hurry. The archer’ll come back soon.*

  *Hunter,* Khitajrah corrected. Even as she replied, she hefted the tack and headed for the paint mare.

  CHAPTER 16

  Shadimar’s Apprentice

  Rain pounded the ruins of the city of Myrcidë, and wind howled through the many gaps and cracks that riddled the Eastern Wizard’s haven. Lightning speared the sky, its sudden flash leaving lined impressions inscribed on Shadimar’s retinas. One day melted into the next, and the answer still eluded him. Even the deepest recesses of his mind had yielded no one worthy of the title of Eastern Wizard, no man or woman he could train as his apprentice. Empty days stretched into empty nights, bringing no solution. And day after day, Shadimar sat in his library, slung across his chair, his feet propped on the sitting room desk and his gaze focused outside the single window. A few times each day, Secodon would leave to hunt, always returning by nightfall. Only one othe
r thing disturbed Shadimar’s vigil.

  The staff leaned against the table, nearly upright in its positioning. Though it did not address Shadimar in words, he could feel the steady, comforting wash of its presence. Mostly, it seemed to enhance his contemplation, though it had no details with which to steer his choice. Occasionally, trickles of an idea seeped into Shadimar’s mind, the source arguably himself. These sent him off on long tangents against Colbey. Memories of the Western Wizard’s foolishness and philosophies that sounded more like blasphemy sent Shadimar into quiet rages that did little more than disrupt his considerations about a successor.

  When these thoughts grew most intense, Shadimar would seek solace in remembrances of the friendship he and Colbey had once shared. But the Renshai’s wit now seemed more like self-serving arrogance, and the memories of happy times disappeared beneath an avalanche of bitterness. The companionship seemed ancient and faded in a way few things ever became to immortals. And always, Shadimar turned his thoughts back to the matter at hand.

  As the third night blossomed into the fourth day, Secodon whined, pawing at Shadimar’s outstretched legs, reminding the Eastern Wizard that the time had come for him to get some food as well. Shadimar sighed. It was not the first time days had passed without any thought for nutrition. Fated to live until his ceremony of passage, Shadimar had had nothing to fear from starvation. Even now that the Cardinal Wizards had lost their invulnerability to objects of law, apparently some of the tenets still applied. Clearly, age did not affect him. Already, he had lived more than two centuries; if the shattering of the Pica Stone had made him mortal, he would have died from decay alone. The lack of food did not seem to have weakened him, and he never doubted illness would continue to shun him. Apparently, the effect had negated only those protections brought about by achieving the Seven Tasks of Wizardry, leaving those won in a predecessor’s ceremony of passage.

  Shadimar lowered his legs from the tabletop, stretching to work the circulation back into his feet. He rose. The movement brought a dark spot into view through the window. Something flew toward the ruins of Myrcidë, and Shadimar could think of only one winged beast that would dare to brave the eternal storm that warded his ruins. Swiftwing? He headed for the window, peering outside. Rain striped his vision in narrow diagonals, but he managed to discern the falcon’s shape against the background of the gale.

  Shadimar waited by the window, perplexed. The red falcon had served as the Cardinal Wizards’ messenger for as far back as Shadimar’s collective consciousness could remember, and he had found references to the hawk in the earliest Wizards’ works. He doubted it was the same falcon, guessing rather that the gods replaced it with an identical bird every few decades. Now, he wondered whether the message came from Trilless or Carcophan. Or Colbey. Momentarily, uneasiness seized him, relieved almost immediately by realization. Colbey would have no knowledge of the magics required to summon Swiftwing. Another thought required pondering. Unless Colbey’s staff can teach him.

  Shadimar’s staff addressed the silent question. *It can’t.*

  Though he had become aware of the staff’s presence in his mind since he had tapped its knowledge on the Sea Seraph, the direct response startled Shadimar. Though he kept his eyes on Swiftwing, he turned his question to the staff. *The Staff of Chaos can’t teach magic?* The statement surprised and pleased Shadimar at once. Since sorcery came directly of chaos, he had worried about the power of the other staff.

  *It can guide Colbey. It can offer understanding of that which is. It can add to the abilities he already has, but it can’t give him ones he’s never known.*

  *And you?* Shadimar pressed. Now that his initial concern about becoming overwhelmed had fled, he became more curious about what his staff had to offer.

  *This is my world. Understandably, I’m less limited. Over time, you will come to know all I have to offer. In the meantime, I will guide you as you need.*

  The offer seemed reasonable to Shadimar. With its direct link to Odin and eternity, the Staff of Law had to have sounder judgment than any mortal or Wizard.

  Swiftwing glided through the rain, then alighted on the window’s ledge. Once out of the storm, it shook its red plumage, flinging water onto the stone edges of the window. Dark gray spots splattered the granite. The bird waited, its feathers ruffled and a message bound to its leg.

  Shadimar abandoned his conversation with the staff to concentrate on this new concern. He stripped the parchment from the falcon’s scaly leg. It bounced from the sill to the Wizard’s shoulder, then glided the last short distance to the desktop. Shadimar ignored the falcon, noticing its weight momentarily on his shoulder. He opened the note and read:

  “Meet me on the south path through the Great Frenum Mountains as soon as possible.”

  It was signed with the curvilinear rune that served as Carcophan’s symbol. The meeting place seemed logical, located directly at the border of their territories; but the summons seemed less so. Still, he had no choice but to respond to the message. It would take Swiftwing a few days to cover the distance, and it could convey only as many words as could fit on a piece of parchment. Then Carcophan would have to answer again, a process that would cost more days.

  Again, Shadimar studied the note. What Carcophan’s message lacked in politeness it conveyed in urgency. Better to meet him face-to-face. It was an option Shadimar would have long considered before current circumstances had bonded them to a cause. Other than on the Meeting Isle, he had met Carcophan directly only twice: once when their respective champions, Colbey and Episte, had had their confrontation. The second time had occurred in Asci, immediately after stepping from Captain’s boat. Both experiences had left a sour impression in Shadimar’s memory.

  Having made the decision to travel, Shadimar did not delay. He dismissed the falcon, indicating he had no response to send, but the bird chose to preen its feathers on the desktop rather than brave the gale again so soon.

  Shadimar seized the staff. Secodon lay beneath the chair, his legs and tail jutting through the gaps. Shadimar snapped his fingers, and the wolf stretched, gingerly inching his way from beneath the furniture before standing. Tail wagging, he came to Shadimar’s side.

  Despite neglecting his nutrition, Shadimar felt strong as he prepared his mind for the necessary transport incantation. The words of the spell came easily to him. Again, he saw the weblike patterns of sorcery that accompanied the call to chaos and the warped, slashed syllables sprinkled through the net. Caught less by surprise this time, he managed to focus on some of the individual tendrils, silken threads that glowed with ever-changing colors and promised vast, untapped knowledge in every direction. Briefly, Shadimar understood the bard’s unquenchable hunger for all things new, and the quest for wisdom that had cost Odin his eye. A moment later, the image snapped out, and Shadimar found himself surrounded by the world of law he knew so well.

  Pale blue sky stretched between the horizons, a welcome change from the ceaseless crash of thunder and tap of rain on the ruins of Myrcidë. To the west, a flat, brown wasteland of sand stretched as far as Shadimar could see, broken only by the Conus River that mirrored the aqua radiance of the sky. Mountains enclosed the trail to the north and south, and forest blocked Shadimar’s view of the East. A pair of human silhouettes approached unhurriedly from the woodlands. Shadimar identified the one to the left as Carcophan. He did not recognize the other.

  Turning his back on the Southern Wizard, Shadimar knelt at the bank of the river, leaning the staff against his knee. Sunlight sparkled from the rushing water, and plant matter bobbed and fluttered in the current. He dipped his cupped hands into the stream, feeling the icy liquid fill his palms. Raising water to his lips, he drank, reveling in its cold tastelessness after days without water. Having slaked his thirst, he shook droplets from his hand, wiping his wet hands on his cloak. With his fingers, he combed excess moisture from his beard. Secodon lapped at the river, his tongue flinging spray that sparkled in the hairs of his muzzle.

>   By the time Shadimar had finished his routine, Carcophan awaited him on the path. The Evil One stood with a hand casually curled around a mountain crag. The sun highlighted the whitest strands of his salt and pepper hair, and his dark eyes fixed keenly on Shadimar. The stranger at Carcophan’s side stood taller than the average man, nearly the Southern Wizard’s height. Ebony hair, hacked as short as any soldier’s, topped features that could never be mistaken for male. Her bangs splayed over a delicate forehead and large, long-lashed eyes whose blackness identified her conclusively as an Easterner. A well-shaped nose and full lips completed a face that formed a perfect oval.

  Yet, despite her beauty, there was nothing delicate about the woman at Carcophan’s side. Though slender, her large-boned frame hinted of sturdiness, and her expression made her seem mentally strong as well. She wore a leather jerkin over a tunic and britches of masculine cut that could not hide large breasts, a narrow waist, and wide hips. The single-edged sword at her side curved twice from hilt to tip, like no weapon Shadimar had seen, and the haft took the crafted shape of a cobra’s head. Rubies glared like red pinpoints from the carven eye sockets. Despite the gaudiness of its design, the worn split leather wrapping identified it as a real weapon, well used and not just for show. Shadimar’s sharp gaze detected calluses on the woman’s right palm. Clearly, she had wielded the sword before and often.

  “Shadimar, I’d like you to meet Chezrith.” Carcophan gave the name the Eastern pronunciation CHAZ-rayth. “My apprentice.”

  Chezrith made a respectful curtsy.

  Shadimar followed the movement with his eyes, frowning, not daring to believe Carcophan had made his decision so swiftly. It belittled the process. Surely, the Southern Wizard must have had previous dealings with this woman, though the possible specifics of those dealings unnerved and disgusted Shadimar. The relationship between a Cardinal Wizard and his potential apprentice must retain some professional distance. Much of the training, for the tasks and of a Wizard, went toward making his apprentice confident and self-reliant. Yet Shadimar sensed that the relationship between these two went farther back and deeper. Her casual courage in the presence of two of Odin’s chosen both pleased and discomfited him. Her boldness would serve the Wizards well, but her lack of anxiety made her seem as potentially dangerous as Colbey.