The Western Wizard Read online

  Santagithi shook his head. “Madam, thank you so much for the invitation, but we can’t stay.” He glanced at Colbey, who formed a tight-lipped half smile at some private joke. “We’ve just come for Rache.”

  “Rache?” Bel glanced at Arduwyn.

  Rusha seized Arduwyn’s hand, swinging it with childish excitement. The hunter gave the girl’s hand a loving squeeze. “That’s Kinesthe’s new name. It’s a cultural thing.” He did not explain further. The information that Kinesthe was a Renshai might prove the final shock that drove Bel over the boundary into madness. In Pudar, mentioning the name of the tribe of rampant murderers was considered rude. In other towns and cities, it was a crime punishable by death.

  Bel turned to her oldest child, a girl of thirteen. “Jani, honey. Get the baby and his things. And as much milk as we have around.”

  Santagithi went suddenly rigid. Apparently, it had just struck him that the infant would require special care that a lot of dirty, foul-mouthed soldiers might not be able to deliver. Surely, his wife had provided most of the feeding and care during Mitrian’s infancy, so that her husband could focus on the needs of the town.

  Jani headed into the room to obey. She clomped up the loft ladder.

  Rusha headed into the main room, dragging at Arduwyn’s arm. “Sit! Sit!” she insisted.

  The main room looked exactly as Arduwyn remembered. The single couch sat beneath the eastern window. Crates that served as chairs lay scattered about. Beyond the couch, a ladder led to the loft bedrooms. A doorway opened into the kitchen. Arduwyn hooked a crate with his toes, drawing it over to where the others stood. Removing his bow and quiver form his shoulder, he tossed them on the couch then sat on the crate.

  Effer pulled up a crate beside Arduwyn. Rusha plunked into her stepfather’s lap. Again, she reached for the eyepatch.

  Arduwyn caught her hand. “No, sweetheart, you don’t want to touch that.”

  “What’s it for?” Obediently, she withdrew, but her gaze remained fixed on it.

  Bel, Santagithi, and Colbey remained silent, clearly interested in Arduwyn’s response. Embarrassed at being placed on stage, Arduwyn stammered. “W–well. It’s . . . it’s like a bandage.”

  “Did you get a oopey?” she asked, using the child’s euphemism for injury.

  “Something like that.” Arduwyn smiled at the girl, her calm innocence strangely soothing.

  “Can I see it?”

  Arduwyn hesitated. She’s going to see it eventually. Better not to make it into something awful. “Sure.” He looked at Bel, who seemed abruptly agitated. “But it’s real ugly. You see, I met this man who didn’t have any eyes. So I gave him one of mine.”

  “Really?” Rusha looked awed.

  Effer stood, balancing a hand on Arduwyn’s knee. “Nah, he’s just foolin’ you. You can’t give away a eye. He got in a great sword fight.” The boy danced around, simulating combat. “An’ it got poked out. But I’ll bet Ardy chopped out both the other man’s eyes. Didn’t you, Ardy?” Effer remained standing directly in front of Arduwyn, apparently also wanting a peek beneath the patch.

  Arduwyn coughed, rescued from answering by Colbey’s hearty laugh and, a moment later, by Jani’s appearance with the baby and a loaded sack. She dropped the baby’s paraphernalia in front of Santagithi, then handed Rache to her mother.

  Bel cradled the child so tightly that Arduwyn feared she would refuse to relinquish Rache to his grandfather. “He’s only got a few teeth, so you’ll need to keep lumps out of his food. Everything he eats should be finely ground, his milk should be fresh, and he needs to be kept warm. . . .”

  Her instructions droned on. For a few moments, Arduwyn enjoyed watching the West’s master strategist, the man who had commanded thousands in war, squirm over details of diapering and burping.

  Yet, although the presence of the baby spared Arduwyn the need to address Effer’s question, Colbey chose to do so anyway. “As far as I know, Arduwyn didn’t chop anybody’s eyes out. But he did kill the Eastern king.”

  The towheaded boy studied his new father with a respect bordering on hero worship, while Rusha repeatedly flipped the eyepatch up and down, alternately recoiling from the empty socket with a squeal, then needing to peek again. Effer’s interest in the injury disappeared as his imagination was caught by this new piece of information. “A king? You killed their king?”

  Arduwyn glanced over Rusha’s head to Colbey, trying to read his intention. In some ways, the Renshai had spoken truth. Toward the end of the war, Arduwyn had caught a distant glimpse of Colbey and Siderin embroiled in battle in the midst of a galloping stampede of horses. Finding an opening, Arduwyn had fired an arrow through a gap in Siderin’s armor, killing him in the instant before Colbey landed what would have been a fatal blow.

  Guilt mingled inseparably with fear. At the time, Arduwyn could not explain why he had attempted such a distant shot, especially knowing that a miss might have taken the life of the West’s hero and seen to Siderin’s escape. Arduwyn had needed to restore the confidence that he had lost with his eye, had felt a pounding, driving need to know if he could still shoot with the accuracy it had taken him nearly thirty years to perfect. And pride had goaded him as well. Raised to loathe even the term “Renshai” and all it represented, Arduwyn had, at first, tried to oppose Colbey, a task of monumental proportions. Later, both intimidated and awed, Arduwyn had found himself inexplicably drawn to Colbey’s golden courage with the fatal devotion of a moth to flame. It had inspired a wary friendship which allowed them to exchange gibes that always seemed on the verge of degenerating into warfare.

  Arduwyn caught Effer’s hands. “No. Colbey’s just teasing. He killed the Eastern king.”

  Colbey’s face acquired an expression just shy of levity, and he returned Arduwyn’s stare with chilling ferocity. He pulled a broken piece of arrow from his pocket, the fletches crusted with blood, the blue and gold rings about the shaft unmistakable. “Whoever fired this killed King Siderin of the East. If it wasn’t you, Arduwyn, you’d better find out who’s stealing your arrows.” He tossed the fragment. It struck the floor with a click that was nearly lost beneath Bel’s instructions, then it skittered across the boards.

  “Whoo-ah!” Effer chased the war toy, pinning it to the floor with his hand. He picked it up and returned to Arduwyn, examining the broken shaft with amazement. “You really killed the enemy’s king?”

  Arduwyn fidgeted, afraid of the penalty of stealing a kill from a Renshai, especially after a long and glorious battle. “We’ll talk about this later, Eff.”

  “When?”

  “Later tonight.”

  “Now,” Effer pleaded.

  Bel jumped into the exchange. “Tomorrow. I want the three of you in bed now.”

  Jani looked stricken. “But it’s just getting dark.”

  Bel whirled to face her daughter. Something in her face must have conveyed rage, because a moment later Jani was herding her complaining siblings up the loft ladder. No longer pinned beneath Rusha, Arduwyn rose.

  Bel passed Rache to his grandfather, the sluggishness of her movements betraying reluctance. The infant looked tiny cradled in one of Santagithi’s massive arms. Yet, clearly, the general knew how to hold babies. With this, at least, he seemed comfortable.

  “Thank you for all you’ve done for Rache.” Santagithi shifted the child to his other arm, dipping his hand into his pocket. He emerged with a fistful of coins, which he pressed into Bel’s palm.

  “This is unnecessary,” Bel said, reaching out to return the money. “I loved taking care of him, and I’ll miss him.” She flushed at the confession. “I almost hoped Mitrian wouldn’t come back for him, but it all evens out, I suppose. In a few months, I’ll have a baby of my own.” She patted her abdomen.

  Arduwyn dropped back down, missed the crate, and crashed to the floor. His hip brushed a corner of the box, sending it tumbling end over end.

  “Congratulations,” Santagithi called, somehow managing to lock hi
s face into a serious expression, though one cheek twitched and he did turn away more quickly than decorum demanded.

  Colbey laughed unabashedly. “When our heroes show such grace and artistry, is it any wonder we won the war?” He was still chuckling as he closed the door, leaving Bel and Arduwyn in an abruptly choked silence.

  Arduwyn clambered to his feet, dreading the coming storm. In the presence of Santagithi and Colbey, Bel had had to pretend. Now he was about to discover whether he had anything left with the woman and family he could not bear to lose. He sought the words to make up for his lapse, but found none. Years as a salesman had taught him to read people and their motives. Clearly, any attempt to salvage their marriage had to focus on the new baby.

  Before he could say a word, Bel’s arms encircled his waist, and she crushed him against her.

  Surprised, Arduwyn clutched Bel as tightly. He savored as many hushed moments as he dared before speaking. “Bel, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I meant to come home sooner, but the war . . . and I couldn’t stand the thought of the Easterners taking you and the children . . . and. . . .”

  Bel’s grip tightened still more. Her tears soaked through the shoulder of Arduwyn’s tunic, warm and wet. “For days I cursed you, hating Garn and Mitrian, and even Sterrane.” She shivered, the latter seeming almost evil. Disliking Sterrane’s simple innocence was like despising a child or a puppy. “Then the army left suddenly, and I guessed what must have happened. But I just couldn’t be sure.”

  Arduwyn knew Bel well enough to guess the rest. “That’s why you didn’t come to the gates to meet me. Isn’t it?”

  “If you weren’t there, the soldiers would have told me whether or not you fought with them. If I never went, I could always believe you died in the battle. No one could tell me that you had just chosen to abandon us and returned to the woods instead.”

  Arduwyn closed his eye, nearly suffocated with the guilt of how, outside the Pudarian gates, he had nearly run again. He would see to it Bel never knew how close she had come to losing him for no better reason than his own uncertainty. “Are you . . . are we really going to have a . . . a baby?”

  Bel nodded, the movement clear against Arduwyn’s neck. “Just promise me our child won’t grow up without a father. Promise me you’ll never leave again, for any reason.”

  Arduwyn knew the danger of making such a vow, yet, at that moment, he would have promised Bel anything. And he did.

  * * *

  Garn rose to a crouch after hours of crawling across jagged rock that Sterrane had dared to call a road. A faintly glowing circle traced the outline of the new moon. Stars burned through a veil of clouds, scarcely revealing the trees, carts, and cottages surrounding Béarn’s streets in rows and clusters. Other shapes towered darkly, unidentifiable to Garn, apparently devices used for breaking or collecting the famed Béarnian building stone or for carving the magnificent statues he had seen for sale in the Pudarian market. Ahead, surrounded by peasant cottages and shops, a wall protruded directly from the mountain. Beyond it, Morhane’s castle loomed gray against the blackened sky, carved, like its curtain wall, from the granite of the Southern Weathered Range.

  Garn ran for a gnarled pine growing within the boundaries of the mountain city, and cramps ached through his heavily-muscled chest and legs. Huddled behind the tree, he worked knots from his muscles, using a rag to stem the flow of blood from his tattered knees. He shook back bronze-colored hair, now entwined in a long snarl. From long habit, he readjusted his tunic and breeks to cover the whip, blade, and shackle scars left from his eight years as a gladiator. A metallic rattle caught his attention, and he trained his green eyes on the ramparts.

  A tall silhouette paced the top of the wall. Links of mail clicked beneath his cloak, and his bootfalls added a hollow, clomping harmony. Garn watched the sentry march across the back wall. The Béarnide walked with a stiff precision that radiated professionalism and training. A tabard flapped through the open front of his cloak. Darkness robbed Garn of his color vision and distance did not allow him to perceive details, but he could make out a lighter patch against a dark background. Months of preparation by Sterrane and Shadimar, the Eastern Wizard, gave Garn reason to guess that the sentry wore the tan rearing bear on a blue background that was Béarn’s symbol.

  The man passed around a bend in the wall. A moment later, another guard appeared from the far side. Garn frowned, hand falling naturally to his hilt. His fingers curled around empty air, and a sudden jolt of panic shot through him in the instant it took to remember that he carried no sword. It would hinder the many maneuvers he would need to perform to enter Béarn’s castle, add bulk to a stocky frame that might already wedge him into the tighter corners, and would be impossible to explain should his mission fail. Feeling naked, he curled his hand to the inner pocket that held his dagger and the bladder of wine, laced with a mild poison, which he would use to incapacitate the king. He also carried a tinderbox and two wax-coated torches.

  Garn’s painful crawl had raised irritation, and he forced it away. He had no need for nor right to bitterness. When the time had come for a volunteer for this responsibility, he had all but stolen the opportunity. Clearly, the heir to Béarn’s throne could not have gone. Even ignoring the unacceptable risk, childlike Sterrane had no experience with subterfuge or guile. The Eastern Wizard would not or could not directly interfere in the affairs of mortals. Of the two remaining possibilities, Mitrian seemed best suited. Trained by Colbey to Renshai sword mastery, she might fight her way free if subtlety failed. But Garn had argued against the choice, phrasing his points carefully to mask his fears and protectiveness behind the guise of logic. His heart fluttered at the thought of Mitrian killed or jailed, guards’ grimy hands fouling the companion he had won only with battles of conscience and honor over instinct. He loved her too much. Instead, he pointed out that he had more experience with stealth, theft, and escape. And though Mitrian’s morality would not tolerate deceit, Garn could distort the facts, if necessary.

  The second sentry passed around the bend, and another appeared as he did, their succession impeccable. Garn frowned, aware he would need to call upon the same timing and intuition that had kept him alive in the gladiator pit. At first, he cursed the guards’ fastidiousness. Then, almost as quickly, he realized it would make their patterns predictable which might work to his advantage.

  A moist breeze blew wisps of fog across the stars, obscuring them. All but blinded by darkness, Garn edged closer, counting footsteps as the sentries made each pass. He watched, assessing with a hunter’s patience, as the clouds thickened in the heavens. Lightning flared, revealing the nearest sentry. Thunder boomed between the granite crags. Suddenly, rain pelted from the heavens, soaking Garn. He welcomed the storm’s cover. One, two, now. Garn sprinted for the wall. A second flash sputtered, then lit the sky like day, revealing him. Damn! Garn ran on, head low. As he came to the wall, he skidded to a stop, whirling and pressing his back to the stone. Beneath his own stifled panting, he heard the uninterrupted slap of feet above his head.

  As the sentry passed, Garn turned, seeking irregularities in the wall that could serve as handholds. Finding many, he climbed, fully attuned to the positions of the sentries. One retreated toward the bend, and another approached. Hugging the wall, Garn kept his face buried in the stone to muffle his breathing, tasting mossy dampness. Cold seemed to penetrate his hands, making them ache. Rain slicked the granite, forcing him to gouge his fingers into stone. Again, lightning split the clouds. Garn held his breath. He had given up on gods and prayer as his months in cages and pits stretched to years. Now fully displayed by the storm, he placed his faith in luck; and, apparently, it did not fail him. A booted foot touched the wall a hand’s breadth from his nose. When it passed, Garn flung himself across and over the ramparts, prepared to roll on the ground below. He plummeted.

  Garn snapped off a gasp, nearly biting through his tongue. Thorns clawed his face. A branch pierced his arm and splintered. He landed hard in a
tangle of shrubs, wood snapping in a widening path beneath him. Incensed by pain, Garn gritted his teeth and lay motionless, preferring the stab of limbs to a guard’s spear.

  A sentry shouted from above in Béarnese. “Who’s there?”

  Raised on the Western trading tongue, Garn had only learned a spattering of Béarnese in the last few months. This challenge, he understood. He dared not move.

  “Who’s there?” The voice became gruffer with repetition. Footfalls thumped in the courtyard, and another guard answered from the ground. “What’s the problem?”

  “Thein!” called the sentry on the wall.

  A third sentry answered from the ground, a few yards to Garn’s right. “You call me?”

  “There’s something in those bushes. Something big.”

  Garn pursed his lips, tasting blood.

  Boughs crackled. A spear darted toward him. He shied back as far as he dared, and the point became tangled in the brush. The guard tugged, sending the branches into a rattling dance. He pulled harder, and the tip came free in a wash of leaves and twigs. Suddenly, a cat burst from the shrubs, howling in rage as it raced into the night.

  Startled, Garn stiffened, his sinews clamping into a rigid, painful spasm that, mercifully, passed quickly. Thein shouted words Garn did not understand, clearly profanities by his tone. Apparently, either Garn’s fall had stunned the cat or fear had held it immobile until the spear had shaken it free. For the first time in more than a decade, Garn seriously contemplated the existence of gods.

  “Thein?” The sentry on the wall prodded his companion.

  “One of the princess’s stupid cats,” Thein yelled back.

  “You sure?” The wall guard sounded skeptical.

  “I know what a cat looks like.” Lightning flashed, revealing a burly guard in Béarnian blue, staring at his hand, his shield propped against his hip. “Damn animal clawed me.” Spear butt dragging in the mud, Thein shuffled back to his post.

  Thunder slammed against Garn’s ears, then faded into a rolling grumble. Apparently, the wall guard could not see through the twined branches that had closed over Garn. The gentle splash of his feet signaled that he, too, had resumed his vigil.