The Western Wizard

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Dorina hissed, tears filling her eyes. She glared back into Mar Lon’s eyes, so gentle for one who had just condemned a child. “You’re inhuman.”

  Miyaga rolled, murmuring something unintelligible.

  Mar Lon jerked his head toward the hallway, indicating Dorina should follow.

  The nursemaid hesitated. As much as she needed to protect, it seemed cruel to discuss the child’s fate in her presence. Rising, Dorina walked slowly from the room, but only far enough for Mar Lon to slip outside with her and close the panel.

  Once in the corridor, Mar Lon addressed Dorina’s comment as if no time had passed. “Inhuman? Me? Morhane tortured citizens for trespassing. He killed his brother and all but destroyed the true king’s line. He put his son-in-law to death because Miyaga was a girl, not a grandson. That, Dorina, is inhuman.”

  The hot tears stung Dorina’s eyes, and she stared at her feet. She harbored no love for Morhane, but Miyaga had become the focus of her life. The young princess seemed more daughter than charge. “She’s only a child. An orphan.”

  “Which makes his majesty’s unpleasant task mercifully easier. Any of Morhane’s line left alive menaces his security. Surely even you can see that Béarn needs Sterrane and his descendants on the throne. You can’t thwart two decades of legend. If you’d troubled to come meet him like the rest of the staff, you’d see just how lucky we are that he came home.”

  Dorina sobbed, her resolve shattered.

  Mar Lon took her hand. “Come on. It’s time to meet the king.”

  Dorina went, lost in a spinning maelstrom of grief. After a walk that seemed far too short, Mar Lon halted outside a game room door to brush the last tears from her eyes and smooth her disheveled, gray hair. “It has to be this way, Dorina.”

  Dorina heard nothing. She stared at her feet until Mar Lon opened the door, revealing Sterrane. The king had risen to meet them and waited by the door. Though startled by the sudden and close presence of the king, Dorina remembered her manners. She curtsied mechanically, not daring to lift her eyes to his face. “You would see the child, Sire?”

  When she received no reply, Dorina looked up, just in time to catch the end of Sterrane’s silent nod. The misery on his features, from his own recent loss, seemed nearly as intense as her own.

  “Certainly, Sire.” Dorina spoke in a dead monotone. Memories of the vibrant girl whose fate rested in Sterrane’s hands reawakened waves of anguish. “Come with me, please, Sire.” She led the new king through corridors of carved granite, haunted by thoughts of Miyaga at play. Though she knew what she had to do, she considered leading Sterrane on a long, tortuous route. She discarded the idea as quickly as it formed. Born and raised to Miyaga’s age in the castle, Sterrane surely knew the location of its bedrooms.

  The torch-lined halls seemed unusually bleak and unfriendly. Dorina stared without seeing the steel-smoothed walls nor the fine oak door, with its tiny replica of the royal crest. One day, Dorina hoped, Sterrane’s children would sleep in that room in her charge, and the cycle could begin again. Much as she tried, that promise could not displace her sorrow. Every child was special, but no one could ever replace Miyaga.

  When Dorina did not open the door, Sterrane admitted himself, shutting the panel behind him.

  Outside, Dorina paced fretfully, hoping death would come quickly and without pain. She could not understand why Sterrane had chosen to perform the deed himself when so many guards would have had no choice but to do it at his command. Perhaps the new king had inherited some of the cold bloodthirstiness that his uncle had embraced. Still, in some ways, Dorina admired the decision. Miyaga had become Sterrane’s problem. To relegate such ugliness to another would be cruel.

  Dorina let the tears drip from her eyes, collapsing helplessly against the wall to Miyaga’s room. For half an hour, she remained unmoving, oblivious to the crampy ache of tense muscles left too long in one position. Finally, gingerly, she climbed to legs that tingled from the restoration of blood flow, steadying herself against the door. Through the ironbound wood, she heard high-pitched giggling. She froze, pressing her ear to the door. Again, she heard childish laughter. At least, it seemed Sterrane intended a merciful execution. Dorina relaxed slightly, straining to hear the verbal exchange that followed. Though she could easily discern Sterrane’s gruff voice from Miyaga’s lilt, Dorina could not make out a word of the conversation.

  More giggling wafted from beyond the door, followed by a crash so loud it ached through Dorina’s ear. A scream welled up in her throat, and she stifled it so abruptly she bit her tongue. Heart racing, she waited. Violent pounding shattered her composure and sent her scuttling halfway down the hall. As her wits returned, she became furious. Even Morhane would not kill a child in such a brutal fashion. Drawing a resigned breath she believed might be her last, she paraded to the door. She grasped its handle, and the door swung open before she could pull. She found herself staring into the thick chest of the king.

  Dorina stumbled backward and fell, eyes wide in terror. Only then did she notice the grinning child on Sterrane’s shoulders. “Nanna!” Miyaga shouted a greeting. “Have you met my new papa, Sterrane the Bear?”

  The image proved too much for Dorina, and she lapsed into hysterical laughter. The solution seemed too simple and obvious for her to have missed, though panic had stripped her of logic. Raised as Sterrane’s daughter, Miyaga would become sister to his line. Suddenly, Dorina found herself liking the new king with all her heart, and she made herself a solemn vow to instill the morals and loyalty to blood that Miyaga’s grandfather had lacked. She owed Sterrane that much for his mercy.

  A moment later, the king and his adopted daughter joined Dorina’s mirth. The three laughed until the hallways rang.

  CHAPTER 8

  Vendor of Lies

  Two weeks of travel through fertile fields and woodlands brought Mitrian, Garn, Shadimar, and their escort of two Béarnian guardsmen to the plains before Pudar. Daily, they had overtaken merchants with heavily-loaded horses, mules, or covered carts. Their dusty party had earned glares and challenges from merchants suspicious of their unburdened horses and obvious weaponry, but the letter they carried, stamped with the high king’s seal, brought them safely through the lands between Béarn and Pudar.

  The sun raised a scarlet glare in the dust swirling from the trail. It cast spears of light between the trees, accentuating every leaf and reddening the foam that bubbled on the horses’ chests. The wolf padded at the heels of Shadimar’s horse. Cottages lined their way, placed conveniently near the fields yet within sight of the city’s defenses. A merchant spoke with one of the guards at the gate, while his entourage prodded a string of stocky pack beasts through the entrance. Children stood beside piles of fresh vegetables, bowls of butter, and handmade crafts, their parents unable to afford stands in the marketplace.

  Mitrian followed the merchant’s pack line through the gates, ignoring a young man who thrust a piece of parchment at her. She had little interest in the myriad religious and secular causes touted by the masses outside Pudar. The constant buzz of conversation drowned the cries of vendors lauding their wares. Merchants in gaudy robes tended stands covered with every item Mitrian could conceive of, and some she had never before seen. Sweet spices, meats, and fresh breads mingled their odors, reminding Mitrian of the savory meal Bel would serve when they arrived. Arduwyn’s wife had worked in a tavern frequented by Pudarian locals because of its food. The transients and businessfolk tended to go to The Dun Stag, a tavern/inn combination famous for its ale. Freed of the need to work outside her home, Bel had turned her creative cooking efforts to meals well worth the trip.

  Mitrian dismounted, passing the reins of her horse to one of the Béarnides. The animals would become dangerous amid the milling crowds in Pudar’s market. “We’ll meet you in the morning at The Dun Stag with the family you’re to escort back to Béarn.”

  “Thank you.” The guard smiled. He had talked about his craving for Dun Stag ale for days.
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  Garn and Shadimar alighted, handing their reins to the other guard. The two Béarnides headed from the market, chatting animatedly in their native tongue.

  Mitrian stood indecisively in the road. Despite months of living in the trading city, she had never tired of its market. Each day brought new wares and bargains, and she had even begun to learn the art of haggling. Still, she had come for a purpose, and Shadimar seemed anxious to continue home. Always introspective, the Wizard had become even quieter. Usually patient to a fault, he had begun to fidget, and he read or wandered while the others slept. Surely, he could travel faster alone. But he had promised Santagithi he would accompany Mitrian and Garn home; and, apparently, he would not break that vow. “I suppose we should go straight to Arduwyn’s and Bel’s cottage. I presume they live in the same place.”

  “It’s day,” Garn addressed Mitrian, though his gaze remained fixed on the market. “He’ll be working, either out in the forest hunting or maybe selling.” He added the last, clearly as an excuse to browse the marketplace. “That merchant he used to work for seemed to think Arduwyn was a pretty good salesman. Maybe he’s back and hired him again.”

  Mitrian had some difficulty following Garn’s pronouns, but she translated his intentions easily enough. Arduwyn was a competent salesman. She had seen him twist a patron’s emotions until the man essentially wound up buying his own dagger. But she guessed Garn’s underlying motive for searching for Arduwyn there was to give him a chance to shop. Sterrane had handed them each a pocketful of gold that begged spending. And Mitrian still had one gem left from the collection she had amassed from the war spoils her father had given her, piece by piece, each bauble won in a different foray.

  Garn took Mitrian’s hand, his strong, callused fingers warm in her grip. “If Brugon’s back, he probably set his table in the same place as last year.”

  Mitrian turned a questioning look at Shadimar.

  The Eastern Wizard shrugged. “It makes no difference. Whether you find Arduwyn now or at sundown, we still can’t leave until morning. You might as well let Garn look at the weapons.” He smiled ever so slightly. “I wouldn’t want him to die for lack of gawking.” Without awaiting a response, Shadimar strode off into the crowd, Secodon trotting after him.

  “Wait!” Mitrian started after the Wizard, but Garn caught her arm.

  “Where are you going?”

  Mitrian pointed in the direction Shadimar had taken. “We forgot to decide where and when to meet.”

  Garn chuckled, jingling the gold in his pocket, his attention already straying to the glimmer of armor and shields on a nearby table. “Do you think for a moment that he’ll have difficulty finding us?”

  Mitrian recalled how she had first met the Eastern Wizard. She had fallen asleep while daydreaming about a sword the blacksmith’s son promised to forge for her as a birthday present. The Wizard’s magic had spirited her to his storm-wracked ruins where he had given her a pair of topaz stones to place in the hilt of her sword in exchange for the largest gem in her collection, a sapphire he had called the Pica. She had awakened in her bed, with the yellow gems present and the sapphire gone. Her hand went naturally to the wolf’s head that formed the pommel of her sword, running her finger over its topaz eyes, feeling the winding flaw that she had broken in one of them during the Great War. Now, in Pudar’s market, Garn’s words made her laugh. “No, I don’t suppose Shadimar would have any trouble finding us.” By the time she finished speaking, Garn had already drifted to the stand.

  While Garn browsed among protections that Renshai dismissed as cowards’ crutches, Mitrian glided from tables of artistically wrought silver to bowls of gems.

  * * *

  Shadimar had little interest in the material wonders of Pudar, yet he meandered through the crowd, hoping to distract himself from the burden of his thoughts, if only for a time. He pulled his travel-stained cloak taut about his skinny frame, scanning stands of exotic vegetables, toys, and tools, on the teeming masses of locals and foreigners that filled the square, and the entertainers who hawked their talents for the spare change of the shoppers. For a time, Shadimar managed to shed his mental burdens for the rich baritone of a musician who accompanied himself with a battered lute; but even that peace did not last long. Before the singer reached his final notes, thoughts of the Western Wizard again invaded Shadimar’s mind.

  Colbey witnessed Tokar’s ceremony of passage. Shadimar reviewed Trilless’ message, aware he needed to act, and soon. If he initiated his ceremony of passage, then Tokar is clearly dead. The conclusion did not surprise Shadimar; more than forty years ago, Tokar’s apprentice, Haim, had successfully completed the Tasks of Wizardry. Since the apprentices did not achieve near-immortality until after their predecessor’s ceremony of passage, a Wizard did not take an apprentice until his time had neared. And Tokar’s failure to complete the many prophecies set for him during and after the Great War had caused Shadimar to become alarmed. It had been the Western Wizard’s duty to gather most of the armies of the Westlands; instead, Colbey had done so, instructed by a note from Shadimar that he had received in Tokar’s absence. It had been the Western Wizard’s job to find the Renshai who would become the Golden Prince of Demons, keep him safe, and guide him to the Great War. Instead, while Shadimar had concentrated on Mitrian and Carcophan on Rache, Colbey had found his own way to the war. And the Western Wizard, not Shadimar, should have accompanied Sterrane to his throne.

  The crowd split around Shadimar and his wolf, some muttering rude comments as they passed. Blinded by the intensity of his thoughts, the Wizard ignored them. He pictured Haim as he had looked after the Tasks, a gawky Pudarian youth with shaken features and undisguised insecurity and fear. To Shadimar, Haim had seemed a poor choice; yet his questioning had only earned him Tokar’s wrath. For whatever reason, the eldest and most powerful of the Wizards had selected a weak successor. And now, Shadimar feared, the transfer of the Western Wizard’s lineage might have proven too much for Haim.

  It killed him. Shadimar clenched his hands, assailed by grief and rage. A worse thought struck him. What if Haim isn’t dead? What if the process drove him mad? The possibilities seemed endless, ranging from tragic to dire. He might be cowering in a cave somewhere, paralyzed by the responsibilities thrust upon him. Shadimar had never heard of such a thing happening, yet he also knew how cautiously the previous Wizards had chosen their apprentices. The memories of his own predecessors shifted through him, sifting out instances where Wizards had reacted poorly to their power. Most brought forth stories of the ninth Western Wizard, Niejal the Mad. Prone to violent outbursts and prolonged periods of sulking, Niejal had also suffered from episodes of sudden, complete memory failure. He had attempted suicide multiple times with knives, falls, and hanging, apparently forgetting that objects of law could not harm him.

  There had been others. The fourteenth Western Wizard had contacted his peers only once, when he had sent his chosen apprentice to the Tasks of Wizardry. The eighteenth Eastern Wizard had become obsessed with summoning and dispelling demons, making five successful contacts before one killed him. And even Tokar had stayed mostly a loner. One of Shadimar’s forefathers hypothesized that the collective consciousness itself had driven Niejal mad, overwhelming him with the need to consult and understand a vast myriad of strong personalities of both sexes. Following that logic, Shadimar had to guess that the longest uninterrupted line, that of the Western Wizards, might become particularly vulnerable to insanity, especially with a known lunatic already ingrained in its perceptions.

  In that respect, the eighteenth Eastern Wizard’s death had given Shadimar an advantage he had always before seen as a lapse. He carried the memories of only five predecessors compared to Tokar’s nineteen, Trilless’ eighteen, and Carcophan’s ten. Still, at this time in history, the world could not afford to lose the collective consciousness of the Western Wizard. The power and knowledge that it had amassed through the millennia would prove absolutely necessary to prevent the doom for
ecast to occur during Shadimar’s own reign as Eastern Wizard. Haim must be alive; the future of all men, Wizards, and gods depends on it. I have to find him, rebuild his character, and train him to use the powers of his inheritance.

  Secodon whined. Pained by the depth of his master’s concerns, he sat, flopping a huge paw onto Shadimar’s knee. The touch drew Shadimar from his contemplations, and he tried to console himself with information that raised more questions than it solved. Colbey watched the ceremony of passage. He may have answers. Yet Shadimar knew Trilless had to have a more personal reason for sending the message. She would not have done so simply to point out Haim’s failing; a weak or absent Western Wizard unbalanced the world to her advantage as well as to Carcophan’s. For some reason, she wanted Shadimar to confront Colbey. Danger there. Shadimar felt certain, though the details of that menace eluded him. He had nothing to fear from the old Renshai who had joined with him in a blood brotherhood. Shadimar patted Secodon’s head, and the paw withdrew. The wolf’s plumed tail waved.

  Absently, Shadimar drew a silver chroam from his pocket and tossed the coin at the musician’s feet. Without awaiting a “thank you,” he turned and headed into the crowd, the wolf again trailing after him. He tried to focus his attention on the lines of stands, forcing himself to assess the quality of silks, gems, and brass trinkets to keep from falling back into musing. One thought kept trailing back. Colbey saw the ceremony. What was an old Renshai doing at such a private affair? Did he do something to spoil the ceremony? Could he have harmed Haim? This last speculation raised ire as well as curiosity. Colbey swore a blood oath with me at the Great War. So why did he keep this information from me?

  Shadimar’s annoyance rapidly turned to anger. Ignorance made him irritable; until he knew the Western Wizard’s fate for certain, he had no right to call a Wizards’ meeting. Even the best of the possibilities scared him. He seemed unable to escape thoughts that he had too long worried like a dog with a bone, and he still harbored outrage over Morhane’s treachery in the Béarnian clearing. There was a time, not so long ago, when no one lied, cheated, or stole; and a man’s word was as unwavering as the cycle of day and night.