The Western Wizard (27 page)

Shadimar traced a line across his beard, obviously unamused. “Who replaced Tokar?”

Colbey could make no sense from the question. Shadimar’s question seemed more like an attack than conversation. “Do I look omniscient to you? I don’t know a damned thing about Wizards, despite what this Northern Sorceress told you.” He smiled, trying to lighten the
mood for them both. “Men have called me a demon, but they’ve never asked me to summon one.”

Shadimar leaned forward and struck with verbal fury. “Trilless cannot lie. She says you witnessed Tokar’s ceremony of passage.”

Irritated by Shadimar’s vague accusations, but still in control of his temper, Colbey sighed. “I don’t lie either. I don’t know this Trilless. And I don’t know what a ceremony of passage is. I only spent a few days with the Western Wizard before he died, and, if you don’t mind, I’d like to forget what happened there.”

“Mind?” Shadimar’s face crushed into deep wrinkles, and his voice gained volume. “Those events might affect the entire course of the world, for Wizards as well as mortals. I should let your fear of a memory damn us all?
Of course, I mind.
”

Shadimar’s words outraged Colbey, yet confusion and friendship softened his mood. All Northmen held a blood brotherhood sacred. Colbey would have made any other man pay for his accusation, but he accepted insult from Shadimar with only a warning. “I don’t
fear
anything, and I can’t imagine why my words or silence could damn anyone. We’re brothers. If you want to know something, just ask.” Colbey sat up straighter in his chair, his left hand resting casually on the sword hilt at the opposite hip. “You claim I can’t hurt you. If you push me too hard, you may find that I can.”

A fleeting smile flashed across Shadimar’s lips and disappeared. Clearly he doubted Colbey’s threat, yet his tone did grow less violent. “Forgive me. Sometimes I forget that mortals don’t always see significances that seem obvious to Wizards. Please. Tell me about your time with the Western Wizard.” Coming from anyone else’s mouth, the words would have sounded stilted; but they seemed right from the Eastern Wizard.

Colbey studied his blood brother in the light of the room’s single candle. Blue robes of an old-fashioned cut draped over his narrow shoulders, and a black cloak enwrapped his skeletal frame. The old gray eyes seemed unnaturally watchful in a face that betrayed great age. Renshai rarely lived to their mid-thirties, so Colbey had little early experience with judging maturity. Estimating
from his own features, Colbey guessed that the Wizard was some two decades older; but he could not be certain. Renshai appeared younger than other mortals, and Colbey supposed Shadimar might be the same age as himself. Yet the Wizard had mastered the art of looking as ancient and mysterious as carvings from previous generations, and his claims of immortality and invincibility added to the aura. Colbey had seen nothing of consequence from the Western or Eastern Wizards, nothing he could not explain by clever sleight of hand or illusion.

Shadimar waited for Colbey’s reply as if no time had passed. At his feet, the wolf rolled to his back, his paws curled to his belly.

Colbey closed his eyes, allowing recollection to flood back into conscious memory, bringing physical pain. Fire seared his fingers, flashing up his arm to engulf his body like an inferno. He crinkled his face, trying to remember the incidents without reawakening the agony, only to find them inextricably linked. It seemed odd to the verge of impossibility. In fifty years of combat, Colbey had felt the grazing slam of war hammers, the biting gash of pole arms, axes, and swords, and the sting of whips. He could remember the incidents behind the wounds and the extent of the torment, but he could not relive the actual pain. Somehow, though, the suffering that accompanied his memories of the Western Wizard could not be banished.

Still, Shadimar waited patiently.

Driving through pain, Colbey opened his mind to the shadows of past years. Shifting backward, he found memories that swirled like fragments of a dream, then merged into a cold, gray reality. “Nearly twenty years ago, the Western Wizard summoned me to his cave with a message sent to the island of the Renshai.”

“He asked for you by name?”

Colbey shook his head. “No, he asked for the most competent sword master.” Colbey looked up. Among his people, to claim such a truth only meant risking challenges from those who thought themselves more skilled. Here, it was considered immodest to the point of vanity.

Shadimar nodded knowingly, lips pursed.

Colbey awaited the Wizard’s comment. The moment stretched into a long silence.

At length, Shadimar prodded, “Go on.”

Colbey cleared his throat. “I take it that . . .” He imitated Shadimar’s head bobbing. “. . . means you know why Tokar summoned me.”

“I can guess.”

“Would you mind telling me?”

“I would mind.”

Colbey stared, his expression growing increasingly grim. “And I already told you that I mind telling you this story. But I’m doing it.”

“Yes.”

Another long pause.

Exasperated, Colbey stood. “In my life, I have taken exactly three blood brothers. One was Renshai, a cousin of mine and a good warrior. Another was the captain of a ship of pirates, one of the fiercest Northern warriors I ever met. With you, I believe I may have made a mistake.” He turned to leave.

“Wait.”

Colbey whirled back to face Shadimar.

The Wizard’s gaze flicked over the furnishings, then stopped on the hilt of Colbey’s left sword. “Do you know those swords you carry?”

“Better than most men know their children. Why do you ask?”

Shadimar sat up straighter on the bed. Secodon rolled to his side, twisting his head to look at Colbey. “Those swords are like mortals, capable of great tasks yet needing the guidance of a warrior. Gods and Wizards can wield mortals with the skill of Renshai or the awkwardness of untrained children. Or we can stand back and let you wield yourselves.”

Colbey blinked, the analogy lost on him. “What are you trying to say? That you can’t share your thoughts because I’m as stupid as a piece of steel? I’ve heard men say that the more skillfully a man swings a sword, the less ably he spells it. They also say strength makes men slow. I’ve seen more than one idiot lose his life to that fallacy. I would have thought you had lived long enough to see through the lie.”

“That’s not my point, Colbey,” Shadimar snapped back. “I wasn’t commenting on you. I was just trying to
establish the differences between affairs of mortals and those of Wizards. We tend to matters that take centuries or millennia to come to fruition. Ultimately, though, those efforts always come back to you.” He amended quickly, “By ‘you,’ I mean you in mass. Mankind.”

Colbey put the Eastern Wizard’s point together, though he did not like it any better. “You believe that your concerns and problems would be more than I could handle.”

“My concerns and problems may be more than
I
can handle. And the more I tell you, the more I draw you into affairs that are way over your head.” Again, Shadimar tried to soften his words. “Not because you’re Colbey, but because you’re
not
a Wizard.”

Colbey returned to the chair. “Which gives me a perspective you might find useful.”

“What are you saying?”

Now Colbey smiled, hardly daring to believe he had become too obtuse for a Wizard. It felt good to put Shadimar on the receiving end for a moment. “Brotherhood works in several directions. I can be there for you when you need me, like now. But I can’t
not
be there when you
don’t
need me or when you think it’s too dangerous for me.” Colbey sat, still grinning. “You accepted that brotherhood. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

Despite the disagreement, Shadimar seemed more comfortable than he had when the discussion had started. Whatever bothered him about the Western Wizard apparently transcended arguments about power and control. It pleased Colbey that he had distracted Shadimar from the topic for the time being, even at the risk of the Wizard’s wrath.

Secodon sat up, whining softly. Shadimar’s hand dropped absently to the wolf’s head. “You can’t force your help on me. I can tell or withhold whatever information I wish.”

Colbey’s grin broadened. “And so can I.”

The stalemate clearly rattled Shadimar. His fists opened and closed in a rhythmical cadence. “Involving oneself in the affairs of Wizards is not something to be done in blithe ignorance.”

“Exactly. Which is why I’m trying to get you to share your thoughts.”

“Magic and demons make war look trifling.”

“Good.” Colbey never flinched. “No mortal war has given me what I’ve searched for all my life.”

“Death,” Shadimar guessed.

“Death in glory,” Colbey clarified. “Maybe your magic will prove more of a challenge.”

“Colbey.” Shadimar sighed, obviously wanting to say many things, yet pressed for time. “I can’t teach you in a night what it took me centuries and my predecessors millennia to learn.”

“I don’t have to learn everything to help you.”

“And I don’t need your help.”

“Clearly, you do. You called this meeting, not me.”

Shadimar frowned, saying nothing.

“Surely, I’m not the first mortal to help a Wizard.”

Shadimar’s look turned from annoyed to pensive. “Odin’s laws constrain us tightly. The influence a Wizard can use over individuals is minimal. We can’t harm or force. We can only suggest courses of action. And we can be as wrong as anyone.”

Colbey remained silent, certain the Eastern Wizard had something more to say.

“Each Cardinal Wizard can take a champion.”

“What does that entail?”

Shadimar turned his hard gray eyes on Colbey. “Much thought and a cautious choice. The man or woman I choose represents me, to mortals and to the other Wizards. On different levels, we work together on the same causes, and my champion would have to believe and trust in me implicitly. I can tell him or her things I can’t mention to other mortals.”

Colbey awaited the unfavorable aspects. So far, the position seemed ideally suited to him.

“The other Wizards are forbidden to harm a colleague’s champion to the same degree that we cannot harm one another.” Shadimar curled his legs beneath him. Secodon circled, then lay down, head on his paws, facing Colbey. “That law is understandably far stricter than the one barring us from killing mortals.” Shadimar fixed a piercing, narrow-eyed stare on Colbey. “The actions of a champion reflect directly on the Wizard. Therefore,
it is within a Wizard’s right to use magic to destroy his own champion.”

Colbey met Shadimar’s gaze mildly. He saw no need to mention that slaying the eldest Renshai would not prove easy, even with magic. But he did see one flaw in the picture of himself as Shadimar’s champion. “Does this champion have to stay with the Wizard? Would he have to give up his own goals and concerns?”

“For the most part, a champion can live as he pleases. His goals become a problem only if they directly clash with the Wizard’s cause.”

“And the Renshai?”

“What of them?”

“Do they clash with your cause?”

“No.” Shadimar raked long, age-spotted fingers through his beard. “By that question, should I guess that you’re volunteering to become my champion?”

That seeming self-evident, Colbey was taken aback. “Isn’t that why you mentioned it?”

“No.”

Uncertain how deep Shadimar’s negative response went, Colbey sought an answer. “No, that’s not why you mentioned it; or no, you don’t want me as a champion?”

“Both.”

Though Colbey had more than enough of his own concerns, Shadimar’s rejection stung. “Oh.” He did not request explanation.

But Shadimar felt obligated to give one. “It takes time to work with a champion.”

“I have to teach, and I have to practice. But I still have time to play chess with Santagithi. It might do Santagithi’s competitive spirit some good if I gave that time to you instead.”

Shadimar straightened, sitting on the edge of the bed, with his feet on the floor near Secodon’s rump. “I’m not talking about time during any given day. For months or years, sometimes decades, a Wizard may speak to his champion a thousand times, once, or not at all.”

Colbey considered. Realization dawned slowly. “You’re saying I’m too old.”

Shadimar looked away.

The concept had no solidity in Colbey’s mind. From
childhood, he had accepted death as a daily certainty. Age had only given him more time to learn technique, human nature, and strategy. Never having seen an aged man until his own adulthood, Colbey had no idea that growing older, in and of itself, could cause degeneration. His own eyes worked as well as ever. His hearing had not diminished. At no previous point in his life had he ever been so skilled or knowledgeable; his reflexes had become honed to a perfection few men could understand. “I am more capable today than yesterday.”

“Mortals’ years are numbered.” Shadimar spoke softly. “That’s what makes them mortal. Someday, like it or not, Colbey, you will die.”

Amazement trickled through Colbey, and he could not believe Shadimar’s words. “I’m not afraid of death, Shadimar, and I certainly don’t deny my own. Remember, I’m the one the Pudarians call ‘The Deathseeker.’”

Shadimar relented. “You’re right, Colbey. I didn’t word that well. I’m just upset. And you have to understand something. Age takes every mortal that fate doesn’t. Whether or not you find the death in glorious combat that you’ve been seeking, your years are numbered. Experience tells me that number is less than ten.”

A chill shivered through Colbey. The idea of dying outside of battle had always bothered him, but a new idea rattled him until he could barely stand to think.
Is it possible to become too skilled to die in glory?
Colbey had driven himself into a personal paradox. To give anything less than his best in battle meant damning his soul to Hel as surely as death on a sickbed. Yet by dedicating his all to the fight, he had become too proficient to die of anything but age.

Unaware of Colbey’s inner turmoil, Shadimar only added to the pain. “And I don’t need a champion eager to commit suicide.”