Shadimar made no attempt to hide his dissatisfaction. He gave Chezrith only a brief nod of acknowledgment. “Would you excuse us, please?”
Chezrith rolled her huge, black eyes to Carcophan, awaiting confirmation.
Carcophan nodded. “We’ll only be a moment.”
Obediently, Chezrith turned, headed east on the path, and perched on a boulder beyond earshot. Curling long legs to her torso, she pulled a book from her pocket and studied.
Shadimar clenched the staff close to his body, allowing Carcophan the first word. Less patient, the Southern Wizard obliged. “Wonderful, isn’t she?”
Apparently sensing his master’s irritability, Secodon paced between the Wizards.
Shadimar kept his tone low and steady, as tight as his hold on the staff. “That depends on what you want her for.”
Carcophan’s speckled brows eeled together. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean, a Wizard’s apprentice isn’t competently chosen in three days. Beauty may serve her well in bed, but it won’t get her through the Seven Tasks.”
“You think I’m sleeping with her.”
“Aren’t you?”
Carcophan dodged the question. “That’s not the issue. First, I’ve had my eye on her for some time. She’s self-assured, proficient in many ways . . .” He smiled at some private thought before adding, “. . . and nearly as brazen as the Prince of Demons himself. I considered her as an apprentice some time ago, then dismissed her because I thought I had seven or eight centuries before I’d need to make such a decision.”
“So you considered her for other things.”
Carcophan’s grin was evil. “Why not? I wouldn’t want a mortal of her potential to go wholly to waste.”
Secodon sat, attentive to Carcophan.
Shadimar glared. “So you couple with her.” More than a century had passed since Shadimar had lost all interest in sex; world-significant responsibilities had replaced such mortal concerns. “Lust has no place in choosing a Cardinal Wizard.”
The smile disappeared. Carcophan’s brows seemed to merge with his nose. “Is that what you think? That I would jeopardize the cause I pledged myself wholly to for a few nights of ecstasy?” He shook back his dappled mane, and his forearms swelled beneath the sleeves of his cloak. “Then you’re as much a fool as I named you. And more.”
Shadimar scowled, saying nothing.
Though under no obligation, Carcophan explained. “You have to remember the society I took Chezrith from.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the Eastlands. “There, women have no more rights than livestock, and men self-serve as they please.” Carcophan did not apologize or moralize; it was a system he endorsed to the core of his being. “To be considered strong, a woman has to become twice as powerful as any man. To win notice for skill, she must become the best. Shadimar, the men of Prehothra actually fear Chezrith. They let her do as she pleases. I don’t think I could find an apprentice more callous, brutal, or shameless. There’s not a single voice among my predecessors that doesn’t support my decision.”
In this new light, Shadimar found it more difficult to condemn, but one thing still bothered him. He delved for the source, and the staff helped him find it. “But this time, we’re not supposed to choose for wizardly qualities.” Shadimar’s words surprised himself. Habit, his and that of every previous member of his line, had goaded him to seek exactly that in his own apprentice. “We’re looking for sword masters and killers, someone to stand against Colbey. If he’s not annihilated, the world will be; and we’ll have no use for apprentices. If we do slay Colbey and destroy the Staff of Chaos, our apprentices will die of old age before our passing.”
Carcophan blinked, his yellow-green eyes fixed on Shadimar. “I fail to see where Chezrith doesn’t fit that description.”
“She’s a woman.”
“You noticed. I was afraid your predecessor’s ceremony of passage included castration.”
Shadimar ignored the gibe. Soon enough, Carcophan would probably lose his mortal cravings, too. “Colbey’s the best swordsman in the world. Skill alone works for the Renshai women because their sword techniques are uniquely designed for speed and agility, delicate yet accurate cuts and precise jabs rather than power. But any other system relies as heavily on strength. Women are simply not as strong physically as men.”
Carcophan shrugged. “You hardly have to argue the differences between men and women with me. My realm is the Eastlands, remember?” He swiveled his head to glance at the distant figure of Chezrith. “She can fight adequately. There are other ways to kill besides one-on-one combat. I believe Chezrith can get closer to Colbey than any man.” Returning his attention to Shadimar, he met the hard, gray eyes directly.
Shadimar conceded that point as well, his thoughts on his own words. Since coming home, he had directed his efforts to seeking the finest replacement for the Eastern Wizard, ignoring the very tenets he had condemned Carcophan for disregarding. Now memory teased him, a spoken threat against Colbey whose source now hovered just beyond Shadimar’s reach. He recalled a day in late summer, a youngster’s voice raised in a plea to the gods: “Damn this demon to the coldest, deepest part of Hel. See to it that he dies in the same agony and ugliness he has inflicted upon so many.”
Details came slowly. So much had happened the day Colbey fought his final battle against Trilless’ champion, Valr Kirin; so much had been at stake. Kirin had denounced Colbey as Carcophan’s champion, a demon hell-bent on destroying Renshai as well as Northmen. The Nordmirian lieutenant had planted the first seeds of doubt in Shadimar’s mind. Despite Trilless’ misconception about Colbey’s title, she had proven right when it came to assessing his danger. And Shadimar had also had the Swords of Power to consider. He had created Harval from necessity, never guessing that Carcophan and Trilless would call the other two Swords. Yet Valr Kirin had wielded Ristoril the White.
Shadimar cast aside concerns that had become too familiar in order to recall the one who had called gods’ damnation down on Colbey. The remainder of the speech resurfaced first, words that had preceded the warning: “Mighty Thor, my lord, creator and sower of storms, gods’ champion of law and honor, please forgive my transgression against you. I will atone however you would have me, and I would dare to ask one more thing . . .” Details of the voice came next, a young man’s, filled with the anguish of a father killed. Valr Kirin’s son. The name came a moment later. Olvaerr. If the boy has any of his father’s intellect or skill, he would make a tolerable Wizard as well as a warrior. And he has reason to stand against Colbey. Shadimar knew Valr Kirin had served goodness and would have trained some of that into his son. But Olvaerr had also attacked Colbey, placing peace between Renshai and Northmen at risk, abandoning goodness’ group mentality for the single-minded greed of evil. Clearly, he could sit in the center and ride both sides. Neutral.
Apparently mistaking Shadimar’s silence for a war of wills and patience, Carcophan grudgingly broke the hush. “I can choose who I wish for my apprentice, and I don’t have to justify that decision to anyone. The gods will decide her worthiness. That’s the purpose of the Tasks.”
“You’re right,” Shadimar said, his thoughts still fixed on the new distraction. “But if you feel comfortable with your decision, why did you call me here? Were you seeking my approval?”
“No. My reason for calling you has nothing to do with Chezrith.”
Shadimar gave Carcophan his full attention. “You have other matters?”
Carcophan’s cat’s eyes glimmered, as if he had suddenly brought all of his massive evil to the fore. “I’ve given some thought to Colbey, his actions and his motivations. I think I know where he’ll go once he’s healed. With proper preparation, I believe we can deal with him once and for all. Will you help me?”
Though excited by the prospect, Shadimar held his emotions in check. So much could go awry with any plan. It was simple for Carcophan to commit himself directly to thwarting Colbey, since he had
already chosen his successor. Limited by time and the need to lure Olvaerr from Trilless’ territory to his own, Shadimar did not have the same freedom as his evil colleague. To risk his life now, with so few competent prospects and the other neutral Wizard warped by chaos meant taking an unacceptable risk. Soon enough, he would have an apprentice, too; and he could commit himself to retrieving and destroying the Staff of Chaos with the same boldness as Carcophan. “I can’t. Not until I have my apprentice.”
Carcophan went rigid. “By then, it may be too late.”
Shadimar held firm. “I have little choice but to take that chance.”
Carcophan drew breath, as if to rant, then released the air through his teeth in a hiss. “Then grant me this: the rest of this day to help me set the trap. One part alone requires your expertise. After that, I only need your permission to work freely in Westland territory.”
Secodon rose, pacing restlessly.
The request rankled, and Shadimar had to fight his immediate negative response. Another Wizard, not neutral, given access to his guardianship made him feel violated. Yet if Carcophan had a way to best Colbey and was willing to take the full risk of facing the Renshai himself, giving Carcophan license to move about the Westlands seemed little enough to ask. The staff added its approval, tipping Shadimar’s decision. Still, he maintained the presence of mind to qualify. “So long as you limit yourself to setting up and executing plans against Colbey, you have my permission to act freely in the West.”
“Thank you.” Carcophan met Shadimar’s sacrifice with the seriousness it demanded. “And the rest of today?”
“I’ll help you as long as it doesn’t go against my own tenets.”
“I wouldn’t have suggested it if I thought it did.”
* * *
Mitrian perched upon a sun-baked boulder, its warmth seeping through the thin fabric of her tunic and undergown. The wolf’s head hilt of her sword nestled against familiar calluses, and she stared into the topaz eyes until her vision blurred. In front of her, Tannin repeated a complicated Renshai maneuver, his war braids flying and his sword slashing gleaming paths through the mid-morning air. Though she needed to assess technique, Mitrian avoided looking directly at her student. More than a week had passed since she had found him in bed with the Erythanian farm girl, but the pain had scarcely dulled. He had not come a moment late to any practice since that time. Though polite, he remained deferentially distant; no unnecessary words had passed between them.
Beyond Tannin, the Fields of Wrath stretched to forest. Near the edge, Sylva and Rache played a game that apparently consisted of her shooting blunted arrows at him while he tried to hack them from the air with his sword. Occasionally, they paused for a hug or to tumble into a heap on the weed-carpeted ground. The giggles wafted to her, soft on the wind, and their joy raised a mixture of vicarious happiness, ancient sorrow, and mild envy. She remembered her one love, Garn. The sweet excitement she had known in his presence had become dampened by the threat of pursuit, war, and Colbey’s insistence from the first day that she was carrying Garn’s son. Then, too, Garn had been obsessed with a need for vengeance against Rache Kallmirsson, the man who had been a great hero as well as a brother to her. By the time Garn had come to grips with his unreasoning rage, their love had matured to familiarity and stability.
Now, Mitrian craved the lighthearted play of courtship that circumstance and choice of mate had stolen from her. She’d never regretted her time with Garn; he had become every bit the considerate husband and loving father she had wanted. But Garn was long dead, and Mitrian needed something more than memories. At least, she reveled in the knowledge that her son had found the peaceful exhilaration for which his mother yearned. And she could not think of a woman more deserving of Rache’s love.
That thought turned Mitrian’s contemplations to Sylva’s father, and guilt speared through her. Arduwyn, too, had suffered tragedy. He had lost his wife just before Garn had died and two of his adopted children a few years earlier. Now that her anger had dulled, Mitrian guessed that Arduwyn’s confrontation over Vashi’s training had masked his true concern. When he agreed to Sylva’s and Rache’s marriage, he had believed it a distant occurrence. Even when it became a reality, he had argued against their living together, citing multiple examples of youngsters in love who had married but lived with their own parents until they came of age. By visiting the Fields of Wrath, Arduwyn had discovered that Rache and Sylva shared a bed as well as a roof. Fear for his daughter’s health, Mitrian believed, had driven him to argue; but his loyalty to Rache and herself had stolen the words he needed. Mitrian understood the logical and legitimate worry: women who carried babies young had a higher risk of complications and death. And when Mitrian thought back to her own pregnancy, she had not been emotionally prepared for a child, even at sixteen.
Mitrian berated herself, wishing she had recognized the real issue before her rage had driven Arduwyn away. She could have shown him the other side. At fifteen, Sylva had a maturity that Mitrian had not developed until she was much older. She could scarcely compare her coddled upbringing to the plagues, war, and death Sylva had weathered. Also, fertility did not run high in Mitrian’s family. Her mother had borne only one living child, and Mitrian’s fifteen years with Garn had never resulted in a sibling for Rache. For the Renshai tribe to survive, her son would need to start his family early, especially when Tannin seemed destined to create nothing better than a whore’s bastard.
Arduwyn has a right to share in his daughter’s happiness, too. Instead, he suffered the humiliation and pain of a friend’s rejection. I owe him a major apology, and I’ll offer it the instant he returns. Mitrian considered seeking Arduwyn only briefly. It would prove as difficult as finding one specific deer in the woodlands. She would have to know exactly where to look and, even then, she could find him only if he wanted her to do so. While she wandered through the forest on a hopeless task, her students would fall behind on lessons too important to miss.
Mitrian turned her attention back to Tannin. He stood in the final position, his sword parallel to the ground, closing his guard, and his other hand low, near, and slightly backward for balance. She had no idea how long he had held the pose, awaiting her assessment. She studied him methodically, first noting balance, stance, and positioning. But desire betrayed her. She could not help also seeing the glimmers the sun drew through his golden hair, the sculpted features most women would find too harsh, and the sinewy grace of his body. Swordplay had made his limbs strong and his hands rugged. His eyes had always seemed fascinatingly unique, the blue-white of sea foam.
Tannin waited, frozen in a position that, though balanced, could not remain comfortable long. His eyes rolled to Mitrian, met her gaze briefly, then skittered away.
Mitrian found many things she wanted to say, few of them pertaining to sword forms. Yet she held her tongue. Personal emotion had no place on the battlefield, nor in practice. It occurred to her that if she found Tannin distracting enough to hinder his lessons, she should drop him as a student. Still, she knew such an action would prove cruel. Currently, she was the only Renshai with enough knowledge of technique to teach, and it seemed unfair to Tannin to withhold the knowledge from him alone. Mitrian also realized she owed too much to two other men to slight any of the few remaining Renshai. Rache Kallmirsson had given up his heritage to serve her father as the finest guard captain, Mitrian believed, that any city had ever had. Rache had taught her the maneuvers, and she had little choice but to keep the last of his people competent and alive. More importantly, Colbey Calistinsson had charged his people to Mitrian, and his was a trust she had too much respect to violate, even if she dared.
Still, Tannin held position, his patience heroic. Mitrian imagined that if he could channel that same dedication to a woman he would make the finest of partners.
For someone. Mitrian let the fantasy slip from her mind. In many ways, it seemed, Tannin was still a child. “Again,” Mitrian said as if no time had passed.
> Tannin broke form. Then, without a word, he launched into the sequence for the fourteenth time.
CHAPTER 17
Frost Reaver
As Colbey Calistinsson traveled south, he skirted the great trading city of Pudar, gliding through the forests west of town to avoid the crowds and bustle. His wounds had settled to a distant ache he scarcely noticed, and the joy of movement after a long and healing rest that spanned weeks made the soreness seem almost pleasant. He bore a wicked scar across his cheek from the kraell that matched the claw strikes Trilless’ summoned demon had gashed across the back of his left hand. Yet vanity had never had a place in Colbey’s life. Always, he simply strove to become the best. What others thought of his appearance or his methods mattered little, and then only when the opinion came from someone he respected. So long as his body functioned and his technique consistently improved, beauty held no significance.
The staff tucked into Colbey’s belt slowed his gait, its end tapping his shins no matter how many times he repositioned it. The aristiri still accompanied him, alternately hopping along the leaf-, twig-, and needle-strewn ground and fluttering from branch to branch. Occasionally, it trilled and warbled, its clear voice floating through the confines of the forest. Apparently lulled by aristiri song, the forest animals paid Colbey’s presence no heed. Birds filled the trees, their chirping sounding raucous in the wake of the aristiri’s talent. Squirrels pranced along limbs, occasionally vaulting from one tree to another. Three deer fed on leaves and underbrush. Another jumped from its bed, its tail bobbing erratically. Even a wisule skittered from beneath a deadfall, but nature’s biggest coward took only so much courage from the hawk’s rousing melody. Sitting on its hind legs, the rodent watched Colbey’s approach for some time before turning tail and racing back into its burrow.
Child of Thunder (Renshai Trilogy) Page 30