Again, Colbey nodded without response. It made sense that the guardsmen did not recognize him. At the end of the War, his sixty-five years had sat on him like forty. Renshai possessed a racial feature that made them seem younger than their ages. War killed them young. These, combined with naming children for warriors slain in battle, had given rise to numerous rumors about Renshai drinking the blood of enemies in hideous magical rites to remain eternally youthful. Now, Colbey knew, his encounter with the gods had taken all of the white from his hair. Training had only honed his agility, and the near immortality forced upon him by the Western Wizard’s passing had, apparently, stopped or further slowed the aging process. If anything, he looked younger now than then, and those who knew his real age would need convincing that Colbey felt little need to give.
“You look so much like him,” the man continued, “we wondered if . . . well . . . if your father might have served in the Great War.”
Colbey glanced toward the wounded veterans sitting a few tables away. Now that the guardsmen had come to him, all three watched him intently. Their expressions betrayed sorrow and jealousy at once. Either they had recognized him, or they envied the attention his presence alone had gained him. He pitied them, but not for the injuries they had sustained in battle. They wore those like a badge of courage, an excuse to cease all useful labor while others cooed their sympathy. He thought of Peusen, a one-handed Northman who had become the general of a brave charge of injured soldiers and outlaws. He considered Captain Rache Kallmirsson, legs paralyzed, leading Santagithi’s men to battle with the exuberance befitting a Renshai. This time, Colbey took a lesson from his student. Achievement is no excuse for sloth. Past glory is for the dead. A true hero never rests, but always he drives on one deed further.
Still, Colbey saw no need to inflict his philosophy on others. If these men derived their pleasure from adulation from a war long finished, he would not interfere with their need. Neither would he cultivate the awe of the guardsmen before him. During the war, he did not mind their reverence; it inspired them to give their all to the battle. Now their homage would only embarrass him because it was unearned. And Colbey found one more reason to remain nameless. He had spent longer than a decade trying to reverse the world’s hatred and superstition regarding Renshai. His youthfulness now and, later, his near immortality could only reawaken prejudices only shallowly buried. He would do nothing that might harm the Renshai tribe.
“I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else,” Colbey said, the truth in the statement evident only to himself. “My father died long before the Great War.” Again, he used only honesty, though he knew it would mislead. His honor allowed him to do so for the greater good of his people.
The guardsmen exchanged meaningful looks, apparently sorting through those who had believed him to be himself or his son and those who had compared him to his years. They never questioned his response. It made little sense for a respected hero to shy from due credit.
The serving girl arrived with the food, waiting patiently for the guardsmen to disperse.
“Sorry to disturb your meal, sir,” the axman said, his disappointment obvious. The others mumbled similar regrets, then they all turned and headed from the tavern.
The woman set down a steaming plate of venison, bread, and peas. She placed the ale beside the food. “Here it is.” She added suspiciously, “You in some kind of trouble?”
Colbey avoided the question. “I’ve never known a warrior who didn’t have enemies.” He smiled reassuringly, “But I’m not in any trouble with Pudar, if that’s what you mean.”
The mild reassurance, coupled with the guardsmen’s politeness, seemed to appease her. “That’s what I meant. I’m sick of the rowdies getting themselves in trouble, then blaming it on the ale.”
“Rest assured, lady, I take responsibility for my own enemies, whether or not they are rightfully mine.” Not wanting to go into details of heritage and history, nor to waste time chattering with someone with whom he would have nothing in common, he changed the subject. “Any rooms left here for tonight?”
“Tonight?” The serving maid laughed. “Just came down from the North, did you? Rooms here go days in advance. But I can arrange for something nearby.” She looked him over, apparently taking in the well-fitting clothes and meticulously tended weapons. “Something suitable. And by the way, your next ale’s free, compliments of that woman there.” She pointed across the tavern.
Colbey tracked the gesture to a woman sitting alone at the bar. Though draped in shadow, her figure and movements told him much. Clearly, she was no swordswoman, yet her grace and confidence intrigued him. The solidness of sinew told him that she had not spent her life sitting idle looking pretty for men. Curly black hair as dark as a Béarnide’s fell to her shoulders, though she carried none of the Béarnian size.
The barmaid answered the unspoken question. “Eastlander, I think by her accent. You’d make the strangest pair in history, I’d think, what with you being a Northman.”
Colbey held little interest in single session affairs, and he already had plans for this night. “One ale will do me fine. Please tell her thank you, but no.”
The woman glanced toward them. Apparently noticing Colbey’s gaze upon her, she rose and headed toward him.
“Tell her yourself,” the barmaid said, adding unnecessarily, “she’s on her way.” She whirled without bothering to conceal a smile and walked back to the bar. Obviously, she enjoyed her job as much as the young merchants’ aides and craftsmen’s apprentices in the market square.
Colbey bit into the bread, concentrating on his food in the hope that the approaching woman would take the hint. Formynder plucked a piece of venison from the plate, dropping it to the table. The aristiri pecked repeatedly at the meat, tearing small pieces from the whole, not seeming bothered in the least by the cooked fare.
Apparently oblivious to Colbey’s distraction, the Eastern woman pulled up a chair to his table. “Hello,” she said in thickly accented trading tongue.
Colbey nodded acknowledgment without speaking. Up close, he found her features on the becoming side of average. The careless disarray of her hair complimented thick lips and dark eyes full of vigor. She did not resemble the usual prostitutes and barflies. Though clean, her clothing seemed more fit for traveling than flirting. Its rich, Béarnian design appeared constructed for the broad shoulders of mountain women. She looked to be in her early forties, an age when most loose women had either given up their trade or clung desperately to their beauty with layers of cosmetics more suitable to a mural than a face.
The woman watched Formynder wrestle with the venison, and Colbey anticipated an inane comment on the order of “nice bird.” He tried to think of a tactful way of dismissing her.
“I saw you looking at horses. You have a good eye for them.”
Colbey sipped his ale, still silent, hoping she would soon give up and leave him in peace.
“Did you find what you wanted?”
Colbey sighed, too polite to ignore a direct question. “I found one suitable.” He did not elaborate further. His financial problem was none of this stranger’s business. He let lie the question of why she had watched him shop. To ask would mislead her with false interest. It was not that Colbey disliked women; half of the finest Renshai sword masters had been female. Under different circumstances, he might have found the stranger’s advance exciting or, at least, intriguing. Those women not scared off by his sterility found his manner too savage and reckless or his chosen trade too dangerous. The need to help Frost Reaver goaded him to depart Pudar as soon as possible. He had to leave in the morning, and the evening belonged to money-making efforts.
“In every movement, in every dealing, you carry yourself with a confidence I’ve never seen in any man—”
“Stop,” Colbey said softly. He set aside his fork, meeting the woman’s gaze directly.
She recoiled slightly, apparently startled by something she saw in his expression. Colbey�
�s cold, blue-gray eyes had quailed many. Yet though he sensed mild fear in her demeanor, it seemed internal. Something she saw in him shocked her. Where before he had felt none of her emotion, and none of her thoughts wafted to him, now he knew a glimmer of her attraction to him. To his bewilderment, she quelled the uprising of compassion, suffocating it beneath an emotion he could not quite identify, something akin to hatred. Then that, too disappeared.
Confused by the unexpected sequence, Colbey forgot what he wished to say. He managed to find other words to get his point across. “You’re attractive enough in many ways. But I’m not looking for companionship. If you’ll excuse me, I prefer being alone tonight.”
Now irritation and frustration radiated strongly to Colbey, seeming much more normal in its scope. She rose. “If you don’t learn to share what you are, Colbey Calistinsson, you’ll know only loneliness and those who care most for you will suffer.” Without explanation, she rose and walked with dignity from the bar.
Colbey watched her go in silence, sensing as well as guessing a deeper meaning behind her words that required consideration. Always before, he had thought of what was best for the Renshai. Though his absence made the others safer, he knew they missed him as much as he did them. Still, though she had known his name, the woman surely could not have meant the Renshai. More likely, she had overheard the guardsmen. Their disappointment seemed obvious enough, and he wondered if she chided him for stealing an opportunity to honor a man they knew as a hero.
Yet there, Colbey defended his actions. His part in the Great War had finished, and he had risen to higher responsibilities. Like the other Wizards, he had little choice but to perform his duties at a level few mortals could understand, in the realm of law, chaos, and balance. The Pudarians needed to find new heroes; better, to become heroes themselves.
Colbey returned to his food, considering his strategy in the gambling house. But his mind slipped continuously and inexplicably to the Eastern woman who had interrupted his meal. Many questions remained unanswered.
CHAPTER 20
The Gods’ Council
Colbey cared little for the serving maid’s idea of suitable lodgings, a ramshackle cottage near Pudar’s eastern exit. The mud chinking had crumbled from between the logs, leaving gaps that admitted and dismissed the wind in low-pitched whistling currents. Someone had boarded the window shut. Though the door latched, it did not lock. The furniture consisted only of a layer of straw spread across the floor and bundled into a heap beneath the boarded window. It made more sense to Colbey to camp outside the walled city than to pay for quarters no more comfortable. But the Pudarian gates closed at midnight. To leave before sunrise would mean fighting guards or climbing walls, and it seemed nonsensical to break the law to save a handful of copper.
Resigned to his lodgings, Colbey redistributed the straw to bury whatever the last traveler might have slept directly upon. The straw had a musty smell that came with age, and its movement sent dust swimming through the bars of moonlight that sliced through the cracks. He placed his swords beside the makeshift bedding, within easy reach. Leaning the staff in the corner behind his chosen sleeping place, he stripped down to his britches and hung his tunic carefully on a protrusion from one of the logs. Frost Reaver had galloped off with Colbey’s supplies, leaving him only the clothing on his person and his swords.
Colbey curled up on the mound of straw, the night’s gambling coming back to him in memory. He had done reasonably well, winning twelve gold chroams in a card game with modest odds. Then, luck had turned against him, and he lost three coins before pulling out, with a total of seventeen chroams in his pocket. At least one of those would have to go toward basic equipment, lodgings, and traveling food. He hoped Crossroad Fyn would be willing to bargain. Otherwise, he had no choice but to purchase an inferior horse. Extra days in Pudar would only cost dearly in time and money.
Colbey realized he had one other source of money, the gold band that had graced his ring finger since the Tasks of Wizardry. He had never worn jewelry on a regular basis. Appearances meant little to him, and he had no use for adornments other than barter. Solid loops, whether placed on neck, fingers, ankles, or wrists, reminded him of slavery and only served as an adjunct to amputation in a sword fight. He had once seen a student catch another’s ring with his blade, accidentally severing band and finger with a single sweep. He had once heard of a neck ornament repelling an arrow, the owner’s life saved by serendipity rather than skill. Such a thing came close to violating the Renshai’s moratorium against armor.
Colbey twisted the ring on his finger. A chroam’s worth of gold. Six times that for the workmanship. Yet the idea of selling or trading the ring crossed his mind only for a moment. It seemed sacrilege to consider using a goddess’ gift for any but its proper purpose.
The aristiri flew to the ceiling, perching among the rafters. It hunkered down, eyes flicking closed as if it had fallen instantly asleep. Colbey glanced at his swords, so familiar with their forms that the darkness did not hamper his view of them at all. He had practiced most of the morning, before entering Pudar. When he awakened, he would train again. The thought made him smile. The anticipation of a practice fluttered an excitement through his chest that never seemed to dull. Stripped of other responsibilities, he would spend his life in a flurry of swordplay, whether spar, svergelse, or combat, mattered little.
Colbey closed his eyes, imagining life as it had been in his youth, practicing sword forms until his parents dragged him to meals or to bed. Early on, they had given up on the possibility of getting him to perform other necessary chores. And by the time they died in the glory of combat, Colbey had become so competent that none of the tribe wanted anything from him but lessons.
Strangely, the last thought that came to Colbey as he drifted toward sleep had come from a stranger in a bar: “If you don’t learn to share what you are, Colbey Calistinsson, you’ll know only loneliness; and those who care most for you will suffer.” The idea shifted him into dreams of days and nights spent honing Renshai of every age and ability, teaching dedication to sword and tribe as well as the maneuvers themselves. Idly, he wondered how the Eastern woman had known his name when guardsmen he recognized had not.
Sleep caught him with an image of a woman he had not seen for half a century and had not thought about in longer than a decade. Himinthrasir, she of strength and spirit, with golden ringlets and a sword competence that sent many men to their deaths, had married Colbey young, the first of two to leave him for a man who could sire children. The image haunted Colbey into his dreams.
* * *
The familiar music of swordplay roused Colbey to gentle awareness. Steel chimed against steel, and he easily sifted the more frequent clang of sword hammering shield from the softer rasp of blade parrying. He opened his eyes. Moonlight flooded the drafty cottage, but the surrounding darkness told him he had slept for only a short time. He listened, needing to ascertain that the nearby dispute posed no threat to him or to innocent passersby.
The swordplay stopped abruptly, and a young male voice crowed in triumph. “Killing blow.”
“All gods damn it!” another youth shouted, tone hard with frustration. “I fall for that same stupid trick every time.”
Metal clanked as someone repositioned weapon and shield. A third person responded, the enclosing, crack-riddled walls muffling the sound only slightly. “If you fall for it every time, does that make the trick stupid? Or you?”
Colbey guessed the youngsters had chosen this sparse and decaying corner of town so as not to disturb the citizenry with a late night practice. He smiled, pleased by their dedication, a welcome contrast to the smug, old veterans in the tavern. In the past, it had seemed as if each new generation of Westerners became more disgruntled and lazy; years of peace had allowed the Pudarian army to grow soft. But, since the Great War, that pattern had reversed. More and more, the Westlands’ youth held all the vigor and promise their parents had lacked. Briefly, Colbey wondered whether to credit
the change to the growing balance between law and chaos or to curse the destruction he might have set in motion against this favorable trend.
“Look, I’ll show you.” The first one spoke again. “All I have to do is sucker you into an overhand strike.”
The second defended himself. “But everyone swings overhand sometimes. It’s the most natural strike.”
“That’s what makes this maneuver so effective. While you’re coming at me, I cut for your head. Like this . . .” He paused a moment, apparently setting up the situation. “When you raise the shield, your sword arm’s in the way of your defense. See there?” Another pause. “There’s always a gap between shield and sword. There’s no way you can close it. I carve through it. Killing blow.”
Another young man spoke, not one of the original three. “So you have to recover from your previous attack, defend, and slice through a narrow slot at once. You’d have to be quick as a Renshai to get any consistency.”
The comparison brought Colbey fully alert. He enjoyed hearing Renshai mentioned for their skill rather than brutality. Certain he would get no more sleep until the practice finished, he rose, tucking his swords into the sash of his britches. He left the staff in the care of the sleeping aristiri, knowing he would remain near enough to see anyone trying to break into his rented cottage. He slipped out the door and closed it silently behind him.
The voices grew louder, and he recognized the current speaker as the third youth, one of the spectators. “Quickness isn’t the point. Concentrate on smoothness, not speed. That’s where the Renshai’s ability came from: fluency, not sharp, jerky jabs . . .”
Colbey saw the four boys as soon as he left the cottage. They stood on an open stretch of empty road, and ranged in age from about thirteen to seventeen. Each had a sword and shield and wore the tan linen britches of the Pudarian guards. Three wore standard homespun tunics, the last bare-chested. None wore the matching shirts that would complete the uniform of an on-duty guard. Colbey judged the speaker, a rangy blond, to be the oldest.
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