The Western Wizard Read online

  Insight blossomed slowly; but when it did, it seemed like the wisest revelation that had ever come to a man. Of course they’re celebrating. Sterrane’s return is a happy occasion, not something to suffocate in solemnness. The joy seemed tangible. And though Garn reveled in it, he also appreciated the decorum and good sense that those on duty displayed. Should a threat arise, the guards would meet it. Not me though. Garn rolled his gaze back to Baran as the lieutenant did the same. They stifled laughter again, though one snort broke through.

  Mitrian glared at her husband, and her disapproval stole Garn’s mirth in an instant.

  Sterrane plucked the circlet from the pillow, placing it, as was the custom, on his own head. “Thank you,” he told the boy.

  The page seemed at a loss for a response. “Thank you more, Sire.” He rose. Turning elegantly, he walked from the room at a pace faster than formality dictated.

  Sterrane faced the crowd, about to speak his first words before an inner court audience. The suspense grew tangible. Though well-liquored, the nobles waited like carvings, unspeaking for fear they might miss a single syllable.

  Sterrane wiped his palms on his breeks. “Friends. I made my first proclamation on Béarn’s streets, so this will have to be my second.” His gaze shifted in Garn’s direction, and the ex-gladiator suddenly wished his vision less blurry. “I would like to name my new captain of the guard: Baran Barder’s son. Rise, Captain.”

  “Gods’ mercy.” Baran froze in his seat, shaking his head as if to clear hours worth of wine in an instant. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he stood with a grace that belied his state of near-inebriation. He pronounced each word cautiously to avoid slurring, and that made his speech as ponderous as that of the knights. “I don’t believe it’s possible for any man to be happier than I am right now. I can think of no one I’d rather serve and no title I’d rather hold.” He considered a long time, his mind slowed. Only the fact that he remained standing clued Garn that Baran had more to say. “By morning, I hope, I’ll be worthy of serving you again.”

  Laughter ruffled through the audience, and it felt comfortable after hours of ostentation. Mar Lon cringed, his sympathy for Baran obvious. If not for his insistence, Baran would still be at Sterrane’s side, with his dignity and sobriety intact. Garn felt proud of his drinking partner, certain his own mind and mouth could not have risen to the occasion at all.

  “Welcome home,” Baran finished. “May your reign prove long and . . .” His lips twitched as he tried valiantly not to laugh. Garn suffocated his own amusement with a hand clamped over his lips.

  “Beautiful,” Sterrane finished. “Beautiful, Captain Baran.” Hopping down from the platform, he caught his childhood friend into a hearty, masculine embrace that surprised his escort. The guards hastily scrambled to follow their king. Garn felt tears welling in his own eyes. His labor in Béarn was finally finished, and none of it had been in vain. Though Garn would miss his guileless companion, Sterrane belonged here in Béarn, where he could speak the language with competence and the people loved him. It reminded Garn that he still had a long way to go before he found his own niche, with his wife and his son in a town that had once kept him enslaved. Sterrane’s battles had ended, Garn’s had not yet begun.

  The dancing bear and the mandolinists amused the feasters as dinner dishes replaced the ones from lunch. Garn left the dining hall to empty his bladder. By the time he returned, the excitement and thrill had disappeared, exchanged for a snug, wine-induced stupor. His eyelids glided repeatedly and irresistibly closed. He vaguely recalled an orange that Sterrane had chosen for dessert rolling twice from the table before the king imprisoned it with his crown. Garn’s mind remained attuned enough to register the conversations of the courtiers as normal and ascertain that there was no threat to himself or to his friends. Then sleep overtook him again.

  * * *

  The dining room door burst open. Garn snapped awake, spinning toward the sound. Everything remained as he last recalled, except for six guards standing in the doorway. One approached Sterrane. “Sire, a falcon flew into the castle, and we haven’t managed to catch it. It has something tied to its leg.” He added cautiously, as if fearing ridicule. “A message, perhaps, Sire.” It seemed an odd or impossible use for a bird of prey. “Sire, should we . . .”

  A shout from the doorway interrupted him. Garn’s attention whipped back to the entry. A red hawk wound through the press of guardsmen, dodging the flailing wave of arms that tried to intercept it.

  “Close the door!” The guard who had addressed Sterrane sprinted for the oaken panels, just as the bird cleared the last of his companions. It glided over his head. He ducked, then sprang, missing it by fingers’ breadths. He cursed, reversing his direction so quickly, he skidded to the floor at Sterrane’s feet.

  The falcon flew straight for the royal table. Candlelight illuminated flecks of gold and ebony in its plumage.

  Mar Lon sprang between his king and the falcon. The bird swerved as it reached the table, fixing amber eyes on the bard.

  The guards charged.

  Delicately, the falcon glided around Mar Lon and lowered itself to Shadimar’s bare forearm. Surely its long, daggerlike nails gouged his flesh, yet Garn saw no blood and the Wizard seemed oblivious.

  The guards checked their rush, but not quickly enough. They crashed into a tangle. The first went down to his knees. Another tumbled over him, rolling beneath the head table, dragging the leader with him. The others managed to backpedal, saving themselves and the royal table. Garn jumped out of the way. Secodon lurched from beneath the table, toenails scrabbling on stone floor.

  Only Shadimar seemed undisturbed. He slid two fingers along the falcon’s wing. The bird cocked its flinty head and regarded the Eastern Wizard through one golden eye. Chuckling noises issued from deep in its chest.

  The guards disengaged. Discovering the falcon in Shadimar’s control, they brushed off their uniforms and tried to look dignified, though they had already lost the battle.

  Garn watched as Shadimar plucked a strip of parchment from the bird’s scaly leg. As the Wizard unrolled and read it, the hawk bounced to his robed shoulder. A frown puckered Shadimar’s lips, and he crumpled the note in his fingers.

  “What does it say?” the leader of the guard unit asked.

  Shadimar shook his head. “It is of significance only to me.”

  Conversations had ceased at the other tables, and all eyes remained on the Wizard and the falcon. Secodon whined, pacing like a caged animal, though the Wizard echoed none of his pet’s consternation.

  The guard glanced at Sterrane but continued to address the Wizard. “Your pardon, sir. But the king has the right to read any message delivered to Béarn.” He reached for the falcon.

  The bird waited until the Béarnide closed, then flapped to Shadimar’s other shoulder. “This matter does not concern the king,” Shadimar replied with equal authority, still without a hint of emotion.

  Sterrane waved the guard away. The man obeyed, though he shuffled backward only a few steps, still obviously concerned for Sterrane’s welfare. Garn knew Shadimar’s falcon could mean Sterrane no harm, but he did not fault the guards for becoming overprotective of a king so long awaited.

  Mitrian watched in silence. Mar Lon looked at Shadimar, brows raised expectantly. Garn remained where he stood. “Bad news, Shadimar?” Mar Lon inquired carefully, his gaze on the agitated wolf. Garn realized the Eastern Wizard must have corrected the bard’s misconception about his name sometime during the sorting of politics.

  Shadimar followed the bard’s attention. Scowling, he snapped his fingers, and Secodon wriggled back beneath the table. “Neutral, really. Though its source is the greatest good of our world.”

  Awakened from sleep, Garn found the Wizard’s cryptic pronouncement annoying. “What do you mean; and why didn’t you say it?”

  Shadimar swung his head around to face Garn directly, but he did not grace the impertinence with a response. Instead, he chose to put
the guard commander at ease. “The message was for me, and Swiftwing only delivered it to Béarn’s castle because here is where I am.” He smoothed the wrinkled parchment between his fingers.

  The bard addressed the guard’s leader. “Escort Swiftwing outside.”

  The Béarnide led his men from the room, the last pulling the panel toward closing. The falcon soared through the narrowing crack before the door shut behind them.

  Once the commotion died away, and the courtiers returned to their own concerns, Mar Lon pressed Shadimar. “So what did the Northern Sorceress have to say?”

  Again, Shadimar wadded the parchment between his fingers. “She claims Colbey witnessed Tokar’s ceremony of passage.”

  “Ceremony of passage?” Mar Lon’s eyes widened at a danger only he and the Eastern Wizard could understand. “Then Tokar is . . .”

  Shadimar’s scowl silenced Mar Lon.

  Less easily appeased, Mitrian pressed. “What does that mean for us?”

  “It means,” Shadimar started, obviously rattled by the message, “that we’re leaving tomorrow.”

  “No!” Sterrane’s fist crashed against the table, sending utensils and dishes into a rattling dance. A wine glass overbalanced, and Mitrian caught the candelabra before it fell. Guards recoiled from the king’s wrath.

  Mitrian rose and stood behind Sterrane. She rested her hands on his shoulders. “Sterrane . . .”

  “No,” Sterrane repeated, this time more sullen than angry.

  “Let’s talk elsewhere.” Shadimar motioned them toward the door.

  Sterrane hesitated like a petulant child. Then he stood and headed for the door. Shadimar, Mitrian, Garn, and Mar Lon followed. To Garn’s relief, Shadimar held the door for the three, though he closed it before anyone else could trail through behind them.

  As they entered the corridor, Shadimar slipped past Garn to place an arm around Sterrane’s shoulders. “We have to go now.”

  “Not leave.” Sterrane pulled free of the Wizard’s grip, pressing his spine to the wall. “Promise with me when me need you.”

  “And I was.”

  “Still need,” Sterrane insisted.

  Mitrian’s face crinkled sympathetically. Garn placed a warning hand on her shoulder before she could volunteer to stay longer. They had gone long enough without seeing their son.

  Shadimar sighed. “Mar Lon will see that you want for nothing. You’ll never find a better adviser. And you’ve shown you can make a good decision with your captain as well.”

  Mar Lon nodded solemn agreement.

  Sterrane bit his lip. “You say when king, me can do whatever want.”

  Shadimar nodded.

  “Me want make you stay.” Sterrane gave Shadimar an off-center stare, as if he doubted but hoped the argument would pass unchallenged.

  The Eastern Wizard shook his head impatiently. “You can’t do that.”

  “Then me not king anymore. Me quit.”

  Garn started to laugh. Mitrian gave him a warning squeeze.

  “Stop that.” Shadimar went from comforting to stern. “We already discussed this. You can’t do that either.”

  Sterrane looked away. “So what can me do?”

  Shadimar gestured impatiently. “You can understand. Garn and Mitrian have a son they haven’t seen in more than a year. I have important business. The time has come for us to leave.”

  Huge tears rolled down Sterrane’s cheeks.

  Mitrian, too, began to cry. Before Garn could stop her, she tossed Sterrane’s raven hair playfully. “We can . . .”

  Certain she would delay their trip longer, Garn cringed.

  Mitrian continued, “. . . stop in Pudar on the way home and send Arduwyn and his family to Béarn. He let you live in his cottage for months. You could pay back the favor; you’ve got plenty of room.”

  The king’s face brightened. “That good idea.” He smiled. “That great idea.” Then the grin wilted as swiftly as it had come. “You think he come? You think Bel go from Pudar?”

  Garn recalled the distant look and the bittersweet smile that crossed Arduwyn’s features whenever he spoke of the city of his childhood, Erythane, Béarn’s neighbor. “Hmmm,” he said with good-natured sarcasm. “Do I think Arduwyn would come to live near the forests he never stops talking about? Do I think Bel would give up a crowded, tiny cottage to live with a king? Certainly not. Who’d want to—”

  Mitrian interrupted, apparently afraid Sterrane would take Garn’s joking seriously. “I think, Sterrane, that you can count on it.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Havlar’s Prophecy

  The Southern Wizard, Carcophan, paced around the single tower he had built near the Eastern city of LaZar, his salt and pepper hair streaming in a mane behind him. He had made no attempt to hide the location of the structure, yet its placement on a barren plot of ground had discouraged visitors. Once, fields of wheat and corn had stretched from this location to as far as the eye could see; but greed had caused the farmers to cultivate the last shred of fertility from the soil. Precedent dictated that a city would soon sprawl onto the pale ghost that the land had become, yet the tremendous loss of life during the Great War had delayed the inevitable. So Carcophan had appropriated the territory for himself, a place to hide, from view and from Wizards’ contacts, until he discovered a new strategy and a new champion.

  Eventually, Carcophan decided, this place will have to be rebuilt in a more mundane fashion, with a courtyard and a curtain wall. Thoughts spun through his mind, and he sought to recapture the confident arrogance that had come naturally before the Great War had crushed centuries of planning and whittled the ranks of his followers. It had become his way to champion his cause with grand acts of slaughter, rather than the slow, subtle trickle of evil his forebears had inflicted on the Northern Wizards’ people. Trilless will expect me to strike swiftly and boldly again. Which is why I have to find something more discreet, something she will overlook until it’s too late and too overwhelming to stop.

  Carcophan halted before the double doors to his tower, his green-yellow eyes missing nothing. Many ideas sprang to his mind, not the least of which was a personal spree of murder. A few well-placed spells could decimate the followers of goodness, yet Odin’s laws forbade such an action, even on a small scale. Carcophan knew he must not kill a single mortal, and he understood and respected the reasons. He could destroy all of Trilless’ Northmen, and she could inflict nearly as many casualties upon his Easterners. Nearly. Carcophan could not allow himself to believe her power could equal his; he had always trusted himself to be stronger and a superior tactician. Within days, he knew all of the Northmen and Eastlanders could lie dead, and most of the neutral Westerners would die in the fallouts and backlashes.

  The idea of wholesale destruction drove a shiver through Carcophan. Without mortals, there could be no Cardinal Wizards. Odin had created the system of Wizards to modulate the forces of the world and their impact on his men and women. The Southern Wizard stood, his hand poised on the latch. Sometimes, it helped to study the big picture; at the least, it reinforced the necessity of Odin’s laws whenever frustration drove Carcophan to doubt the All-Father’s intentions. The Cardinal Wizards stood as a buffer between gods and mortals. Once mortal themselves, the Wizards maintained a unique outlook that the gods could never have, yet their near immortality gave them a glimpse of the other side as well.

  The system of the Cardinal Wizards saved the gods from needing to regulate mortals and the morals that directed them. The few times Carcophan had heard of gods interacting with men had resulted in profound shakings of the foundations of mortality, and the ripples stretched far beyond the gods’ intentions. It was easier and safer for the gods to keep their distance, to worry only about the grandest issues of reality: creation, death, nature, and the cosmos. Even the fact that mankind had invented false gods and pantheons did not faze the gods; they found their fulfillment from sources other than peasants’ adulation. And they understood the limitations of
the mortals they had made.

  Carcophan pulled open the tower doors, exposing a dry, winding staircase. The breach in the otherwise solid structure caused magic to shimmer and flash through the stone, and alarm shivered through him. Carcophan paused, frowning. Crafted from the Chaos that Odin had banished, magic was unpredictable, even in a Cardinal Wizard’s hands. Illusion and fleeting intangibles posed little threat; but magic instilled into objects opened a portal for Chaos and its creatures, the demons. Because of this, the Great Swords and the Pica Stone were, at most times, the world’s only significant magical items. Shadimar kept the Pica; it was felt to be of least danger in the weakest Wizard’s hands. The swords were stored on the plain of Chaos, except in times of need.

  Carcophan knew he was taking a risk by placing such a huge volume of sorcery at one site, yet he had a need and a plan for his tower. First, it gave him a protected fortress other than the underground labyrinth that usually served as the Southern Wizard’s home. The other Cardinal Wizards had no right to enter his territory. Law forbade them from locating him by spying, and they could contact him only by the messenger falcon, Swiftwing. Even then, they would need to direct the bird to the proper location. For now, Carcophan wanted to plot and study in solitude; he would not be disturbed, for any reason, until he found the champion to replace dead King Siderin. Still, the Southern Wizard had another reason for constructing his magical tower. He was going to summon a demon more powerful than any he had called before. And he needed to contain it.

  Carcophan entered the tower, closing the doors behind him. As the panels fell flush with the building, closing the breach, the sense of warning disappeared. Turning, the Southern Wizard touched the tower with magic sense. He felt the smooth sheet of magic coating the inner walls, humming like a trapped insect, a force unused to order or containment. The cold, still seams of the door felt thin as string, surely not a significant hole in his defenses. Yet the Southern Wizard chose to take no chances. Tracing the outline of the portals with a finger, he sealed the gap with sorcery as rough and strong as solder. Satisfied, he trotted up the steps.