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 mo
re 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.”
“Odin damn you to Hel!” Colbey leapt to his feet, so swift and light that even the wolf did not think to move until the Renshai was finished. “If I simply wanted to die, I’m quite capable of inflicting fatal wounds on myself or anyone else.” He glared, his words verging on threat. “I’ve been plunging into every war I could find since I was born. Death has eluded me so far. What makes you so sure it’ll happen if you take me as a champion?” Another thought dashed over the first, and it emerged before Colbey had a chance to consider it. “And if I did die? What would it hurt? You could always get yourself another champion.”
“And waste the time I took to train you.”
Colbey shrugged. “Train me to what? I already know how to fight. I’m no more afraid to die than you, and I’ll gladly give my life for anything I believe in.” It occurred to Colbey to question why he felt so strongly about the matter. Two reasons came to the forefront. With blood brotherhood came responsibility, and the Wizard’s cause might give him powerful enough enemies to find the death in battle he sought.
Shadimar laced his fingers through his beard. “Colbey, sit.”
Colbey sat.
“I’ve been a Cardinal Wizard for longer than two hundred years.”
Colbey raised his brows, wondering how the Wizard dared to call Colbey old.
“And I’ve never chosen a champion before. That should tell you how carefully and slowly I make such a decision.”
“Ah.” A light dawned for Colbey. “So slow decision-making is your weakness, too.”
“Too?” Shadimar’s hands fell into his lap. “Surely you don’t mean you.”
“No, I mean Haim. Tokar’s apprentice. Slow decision-making killed him; and, perhaps, the Western Wizard as well.”
Shadimar looked hopeful as the conversation returned to the matter for which he had summoned Colbey. “You’ll tell me the story?”
“You’ll answer my questions about some of the things that happened that I didn’t understand?”
“To the best of my ability, your knowledge, and the limits of my vows.”
It seemed fair to Colbey. “I can’t ask for more than that. And the champion thing?”
“I’ll consider it with the seriousness that you and it deserve. But I can’t guarantee I’ll come to the decision you want.”
“And I can’t guarantee that I won’t get offended.”
Shadimar’s lips twitched upward into less of a frown, but not quite a smile. He borrowed Colbey’s words. “I can’t ask for more than that.”
Having come to a tentative agreement, both men nodded. Colbey prepared to launch into his story.
CHAPTER 10
Colbey’s Story
Darkness enfolded the forest north of Santagithi’s Town, and stars speckled the gaps between the branches. Moonlight slashed a line through the practice clearing, dwarfing the light from a candle jutting out of a bronze holder in Emerald’s hand. She balanced it on a deadfall, the circle of light it shed glazing into and heightening the celestial glow trapped beneath the canopy of leaves.
Beginning at one end of the fallen trunk, Emerald examined the length of it by finger’s breadths. Each crevice, every rotting piece of bark fell under her scrutiny, and she shifted the candle as she moved to highlight each new area she searched. Episte had told her that Colbey had nicked young Rache with a sword blade in spar. Propriety did not allow her to remove the shirt from another woman’s child to expose the injury; but if she could find the bloodstain that Episte had mentioned, she might gather enough proof to convince Mitrian and Santagithi that Colbey was a danger to the children.
A danger. Emerald snorted, enraged by the understatement. That Colbey hit and cut her son seemed ugly enough. Worse, each night, she found herself dealing with issues of philosophy and concepts too adult for a four-year-old mind, concepts like death, glory, war, and the value of others’ lives. She hated to think of the emotional damage Colbey had inflicted upon her only child, whom she dearly loved, her only remaining link to the man she had loved as well. And I’m powerless to stop Colbey from destroying my child.
Tears welled in Emerald’s eyes, blurring the clearing. She halted her search, no longer able to distinguish dappled shadows from stains. A glimpse of movement caught the edge of her vision. Startled, she whirled toward it.
A man stood at the edge of the clearing. Moonlight sent white accents shimmering through a golden hair. A dark leather jerkin and breeks covered a slender figure and sinews honed by battle. A sword hung at his hip. His pale Northern skin was clearly visible against the night’s pitch.
Rache? Emerald froze, uncertain whether to enfold him in her arms or run screaming in terror. Eyes locked on the figure, she made a religious gesture warding against evil spirits, her fingers tracing the form repeatedly and mindlessly. Hope trickled through her, then widened to a torrent that nearly overwhelmed her. The soldiers had told her that Rache had died in the Great War, yet she had never seen his body. They could have lied. Need overcame all caution, and desire made her sure of things that could not be possible. It is Rache. Rache’s alive! Alive! She took a sudden step toward him, arms raised in greeting.
“Hello,” the man said in the trading tongue, his Northern accent a heavy singsong. The voice was a stranger’s.
Emerald stopped, blinking rapidly. Tears stretched into colored streamers across her lashes, then her vision cleared and she could see the man’s face was not Rache’s. He wo
re a short, stiff beard, while Rache had always shaved cleanly. Her arms fell to her side. A Northman? Why? How? Northmen don’t come here. In her twenty-seven years in Santagithi’s Town, she had seen no Northmen except Rache and Colbey. Sudden fear dried her mouth, and she backstepped abruptly, forgetting the deadfall. Her calf struck wood, knocking the candle to the ground. The flame drew a spiral through the darkness, then sputtered out.
“Hello,” the man repeated, taking a cautious step further into the clearing, his hands outstretched in a gesture of peace. “I-eh won’t-eh hurt you.” His voice rose on every second syllable, and he seemed determined to ascertain that every word contained a second sound, even if he had to create it.
“Who are you?” Emerald continued to inch backward until she bunched tightly against the deadfall.
“My-eh name-is Ivhar Ingharrson of Vikerin.” He pronounced it EEV-har, with the nearly silent “r” sounding like an afterthought.
Emerald recognized the tribal name, Vikerin. The soldiers who had fought in the Great War spoke of the single Northern tribe that had banded with Santagithi’s army and its Western cause. Faced by an ally, she relaxed slightly and sat on the trunk. His presence still alarmed her. Northern xenophobia had become legendary; and she knew most Northmen never crossed the barriers that divided West from North: the Granite Hills and the Weathered Mountains. The rare times they did, it was to trade in Pudar. “What do you want here?”
“I-eh come for een-fra ma-sheen.”
“Information?” Emerald repeated, as much to clarify the Northman’s pronunciation as to confirm his intention. In the sixteen years that Rache had lived in Santagithi’s Town, she had concentrated on his speech patterns enough to catch most of the nuances of his accent. But Rache had come to them as a child. Over time, Western phrases and pronunciations had colored his speech until even he abandoned the Northern “Ra-keh” for the Westerners’ “Rack-ee” when it came to saying his own name.
“A-bout one-called Cull-bay.”
Emerald’s blood seemed to ice over in her veins. “Colbey?” she said, realizing that, so far, she had managed to do little more than repeat the final word of each of Ivhar’s questions.
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