The Western Wizard (46 page)

But the world she had known had crumbled, a war spoil of Northmen. Probably, they had left now; geographical barriers would make it nearly impossible for Northmen to hold the territory. The survivors could return to their loved ones and, over many years, rebuild the city that had once stood, cradled between the mountain ranges. For Mitrian, nothing remained. No matter their condition, the buildings she had lived in since birth were haunted by her parents. Santagithi’s strong presence permeated even her mental images of the town.

The men in the next room would need to select a new leader as well, and Mitrian meant to make their choice easy. She knew it would need to be a man. To other societies, like the Renshai, gender mattered little, but the West had a narrower image of female and male roles. Santagithi’s remaining citizens had undergone too much to have the foundations of their religion and society disrupted also. Garn’s zeal and lack of strategic competence would make him a poor choice. And, having lived most
of her life in Santagithi’s citadel, Mitrian doubted she could adjust to a cottage. All of her childhood playmates lay dead, casualties of Garn’s wrath, the Great War, and the war she had just survived. Those members of her family who were not dead were with her, and Mitrian had no reason to return to a city of ghosts that would spark her memories and grief at every turn.

Mitrian placed her hand on Colbey’s, as usual receiving no movement or response. Occasionally, he did stir into consciousness, at times enough to swallow a few spoonfuls of Shadimar’s herb concoction. But Colbey never became coherent. No life looked out from his eyes, even when he opened them. Still, Mitrian hoped, fearing the responsibilities his death would force upon her. She still practiced her sword maneuvers daily, and Rache always joined her. Since their arrival in the Eastern Wizard’s ruins, Episte had done little more than sleep and keep his vigils at Colbey’s bedside.

A tap sounded on the door, then it swung open. Rache stood in the entryway. “My turn, Mama.”

Mitrian rose, yawning.

Rache stepped across the threshold, studying Colbey in the candlelight. “Anything?” he asked, mostly from politeness, Mitrian guessed.

Mitrian shook her head. She took one last look at Colbey. Shadimar’s robes covered the ugly gashes and bruises that mottled the Renshai’s form. Mitrian cringed at the thought. Though her ministrations, and Shadimar’s, had caused the wounds to heal far more quickly than she would have believed possible, it seemed like an obscenity and a tragedy that anyone would deface a god’s creation of such grace. Her memory could not quite recreate the perfection of his sword katas, his movements more agile, confident, and precise than any dancer. Once, she had believed Episte’s father was the epitome of male beauty. But, though the elder Rache had had youth, Colbey’s speed and skill put even him to shame.

Mitrian caught her son into a powerful embrace. Rache returned his mother’s grip, his tawny mane soft against her face, his shoulders as thick as his father’s. Not only had he inherited his father’s muscled physique, honed by the intensity of his Renshai training, but he sported the
gigantic bone structure that Mitrian had inherited from her father. Mitrian found it difficult to remember that her huge son was barely thirteen.

“I’ll take care of things here.” Rache pulled free of his mother’s arms. “They’re talking about the future in there.” He jerked a thumb toward the general sleeping room. “Papa’s asleep, and I think one of you should be there.”

Mitrian cast one last look at Colbey. He stirred restlessly but did not open his eyes. Turning, she headed from the room. Soon, she suspected, Episte would join Rache. Although the boys took separate watches, they frequently overlapped their time, blurring it into one long double vigil during which they chatted or played cards or chess.

Though narrow and unadorned, the hallway seemed comfortable after hours in Colbey’s sickroom. Shadimar’s herbs obscured the odors of infection and old blood, but she did not realize how overpowering the plant smells were until she stepped into the windswept coolness of the corridor. Quietly, she traversed the familiar path to the survivors’ sleeping room. Her concerns remained heavy within her, and the nightmare of death and disease followed her to the doorway.

Inside, twenty men and two women discussed the future over bowls of Shadimar’s stew. Garn lay in the farthest corner, sleeping lightly. The highest ranking officer, archer Captain Bromdun stood listening, one foot propped against the wall and a steaming bowl in his hand. Episte paced, a fragile child threading amid the others in silence. A stout soldier Mitrian knew as Tobhiyah stood in the center of the room, his stew at his feet.

Seated with the others on the floor, Galan was speaking as Mitrian entered. “. . . can’t continue. Shadimar’s going to run short of food or patience. Twenty-four house guests become a bother eventually, no matter how much they sleep.”

One of the women kicked a heavyset warrior sitting next to her. “He’ll run out of food tomorrow if Daegga stays.”

Daegga continued to shovel stew into his mouth, ignoring the taunt.

A soldier near Garn raised a more practical issue. “There’re still four of us that never made it through the storm. They could still be coming. And what about Santagithi?”

A man next to the speaker grunted. “Santagithi’s dead.”

The soldier spun around to face the other man directly. “How do you know? Colbey made it.”

“What’s left of him.”

Episte whirled, glaring at the speaker. “When Colbey wakes up, he can tell us what happened to Santagithi.”

Tobhiyah snorted. “When Colbey wakes up? What nonsense, child. In three days, we’ve gotten nothing into him but water and a few herbs and only babbling out. The man is dead.”

Episte’s face went purple. Before Mitrian could think to stop him, the teenager sprang in a wild fury. “He’ll outlive you, scum! I’ll see to that!” His sword was a blur that seemed barely to flicker in its course from Episte’s sheath to Tobhiyah’s throat.

Tobhiyah staggered backward, his foot slamming into his bowl. Gravy splashed across stone. The bowl rolled beneath the soldier’s foot, and he fell awkwardly to the floor. The bowl clattered over granite, trailing stew.

Tobhiyah’s clumsiness gained Mitrian the time she needed to step between the youth and the fallen man. Though red-faced, Episte did not press. His sword hovered, clearly meant to intimidate, not to kill.

The woman who had not yet spoken clambered to her feet, avoiding the spilled stew. “Quit it! We can’t be fighting amongst ourselves. Not now. I was a girl when we built our town and chose our most wise and skilled warrior as our leader. Santagithi was young, but he proved his ability well enough in the battles we fought to arrive at and claim our land. He treated us all with respect. He loved us enough to die for us.” Her words echoed in the growing silence, and she seemed tiny amid so many warriors. “We owe it to him to wait.”

The others met her pronouncement with nods and grunts of agreement. Episte sheathed his sword. Tobhiyah backed cautiously away. The woman who had playfully
insulted Daegga pulled a rag from the bedding and began to clean the mess with Daegga’s help.

“I have a suggestion.” Galan kept his gaze locked on Episte, as if he feared resistance to his idea. “We can decide what to do based on Colbey. If, gods willing, he survives, we can ask him about Santagithi. If he dies, we will accept our leader’s death as well.”

Rache appeared in the doorway. “Then, maybe you should talk with Colbey instead of about him.”

Joy sparked in Mitrian. Doubt did not allow her to become too excited by the news. “Is he. . . ?” She did not bother to finish.

Rache grinned broadly. “Awake and aware.” Turning, he headed back toward the sickroom. Mitrian followed. As one, the others scrambled after her, trailing down the hallway in a noisy cloud of speculation. Without knocking, they burst into Shadimar’s bedroom, discovering the Renshai propped on the ticking, the Wizard sitting on the floor beside him. A grimy piece of leather filled the Eastern Wizard’s lap.

Shadimar frowned at the interruption, but Colbey grinned tolerantly. His face looked pale, even for his Northern coloring, and blankets covered his torso. “I would be flattering myself to believe all your concern is for me.” He winced with every word; apparently speaking caused him pain. His gaze trailed over the crowd, and Mitrian noticed that the fever had driven some of the coldness from his eyes. “You want to know about your general.” It was a logical guess.

Episte shoved through to the front; his smile seemed to encompass his entire face.

Colbey coughed, and sympathetic pain stabbed through Mitrian. “The news is good and bad. Santagithi was killed. We lost a fine warrior, but take solace.”

Tobhiyah interrupted, voice harsh with bitterness and sorrow. “He died in battle. Yes, we know. Spare us the Valhalla speech. I heard it from Rache. Fifty times was enough. All that matters is he’s dead.”

A hush grew, though whether in horror at Tobhiyah’s disrespect or in honor of Santagithi, Mitrian did not know. Forced to accept her father’s death for certain, Mitrian felt grief crush down upon her again. She dabbed
at her moistening eyes, no longer able to deny the truth she had known for days.

Garn broke the silence. “How did you escape?”

Colbey’s gaze plucked Garn from the group. “After Santagithi and I killed the Northmen who had followed us all, and the general lost his life in valiant combat . . .” Rerouted by the need to mention the glory of Santagithi’s death, Colbey lost the thread of his sentence. “. . . I was sure hundreds of Northmen would soon be upon us. Since I didn’t know the cave, I dragged Santagithi’s body to a random passage. To my dismay, it ended blind. Before I could choose another direction, I heard voices. Trapped and injured, I bandaged my wounds from habit. I never expected to survive them.” He glanced at Shadimar, as if for explanation, but he did not give the Wizard an opening for reply. “The Northmen’s words echoed through the caverns, and I sifted out their plans. Most had circled the cave to wait at the back exit you had already cleared. The others formed a wall, sweeping the passage from front to back. It would have worked, too, except for one detail. I didn’t know how to find the back exit. So I sealed off Santagithi’s body with what rubble I could gather, lacking supplies for a pyre. With no other place to go, I went back to the entrance. Unwittingly, the Northmen had left me a herd of horses from which to choose my steed. As agreed, I rode here. And here I am.”

The old Renshai looked directly at Shadimar. “I could have received a kinder welcome. Your storm nearly finished me.”

Having already defended his tempest to Mitrian, the Eastern Wizard only shrugged. “I’m afraid, Colbey Calistinsson, magic is not as predictable as your sword.”

Bromdun restored command to his superior. “So what now, sir. Do you think it’s safe to return home?”

The crowd pressed forward, eager for Colbey’s reply. Nearly all had left loved ones as captives of the Northmen. Most had left the plight of their kin an unanswered question.

“I think it’s safe for you to return home.” Colbey’s response seemed noticeably odd. By avoiding the term “us,” he had excluded himself, at least. “You’ll need to
replace your food stores and anything with monetary value, but I don’t believe the Northmen would harm anyone who didn’t fight back. They may have taken a few children as slaves or gladiators . . .”

Mitrian’s eyes strayed naturally to Garn for his reaction. Discovering most of the others looking in the same direction, she cursed her insensitivity. Garn seemed to handle the attention well, his attention completely on Colbey.

“. . . If you deal with it gently and keep your heads, you may barter those children back. Be patient. The Northmen are strict, but not cruel. They shouldn’t suffer.” Colbey looked out over the survivors. “You don’t have men to spare for fool’s missions or attacks in anger.”

“You’re not coming with us, sir?” Bromdun asked the obvious question. “You’re not going to help us set things right?”

“No.” Colbey lowered himself to the bed, his voice softening. “The rumors that I’m Renshai have always been true. So long as I’m with you, the Northmen will continue to attack. You have enough to do without worrying about going back, unprepared, to a war once lost.” He shook his head. “I would never ask anyone to lie. It would, however, be best if the Northmen believed I was dead.”

Order erupted into a clamor of conversation. Apparently sympathetic to Colbey’s need for rest, Bromdun raised a hand. “Quiet! Everyone out.” As the survivors filed back into the hallway, Bromdun addressed Shadimar. “If we may intrude one more night, we’ll leave at sunrise.”

Shadimar remained in place. “As you wish.”

Colbey waved Mitrian to him. “Stay behind. I need to talk to the other Renshai.”

Mitrian nodded. She caught Garn’s arm, then gestured to Rache and Episte to remain.

The last of the survivors filed through the door, and Bromdun closed the door behind himself and his charges. Shadimar stayed as well. Neither his presence nor Garn’s seemed to bother Colbey.

“You have my tunic?” Colbey swiveled his gaze to Shadimar.

Shadimar raised the tattered, bloodstained rag. “Such as it is.” He shook it gently, and a medallion slid to the floor on a silver chain. “What’s this?” He hefted it.

Colbey’s gaze followed the jewelry. “I found that around Santagithi’s neck. That close to his heart, a warrior wears only something he treasures. Rache, Santagithi was your grandfather. I thought you should have it.”

Shadimar handed it to Rache, who stared at the medallion on his palm, the chain dangling through his fingers. Episte fidgeted as if in distress.

Mitrian shifted in closer for a better look. She recognized the piece now. “My mother used to wear that.” She reached for it, taking it by the chain, and scooting her hands to the medallion. “It opens. My mother used to keep a lock of Father’s hair in it. She believed that if she kept a piece of him with her, he would always come back from his forays.” Mitrian considered a moment, working the clasp. “And he always did, too.” She opened the medallion. A piece of folded parchment floated to Shadimar’s lap.