Child Of Thunder

Book 3: Renshai Trilogy

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

Genres: Fantasy; Fantasy action & adventure; Science Fiction; Epic Fantasy

Synopsis

The final book in Mickey Zucker Reichert’s acclaimed, bestselling epic fantasy Renshai Trilogy—an intricate world of Norse mythology, slashing swordplay, and devastating sorcery. Colbey’s duties in the world of mortals were seemingly done—the Renshai were safely established in a community of their own, and Sterrane was ruling peacefully in the kingdom of Bearn. Now Colbey must face the Seven Tasks of Wizardry and learn whether he is truly the new Western Wizard, keeper of neutrality. But Colbey is about to discover that there is an Eighth Task far more dangerous not only to himself, but to the worlds of humans and gods alike. And even if he survives to take on that eighth challenge, there are those among the gods, Wizards, and mortalkind ready to make loyal allies into weapons to use against Colbey. For with Ragnarok looming over all the worlds, both those sworn to law and those promised to chaos will unite to stop the Wizard-warrior by any means—though their very actions against Colbey may become the catalyst for mutual destruction.

Release date: April 1, 1993

Publisher: DAW

Print pages: 592

Sample

Silence filled the women’s court in the Eastern kingdom of Stalmize, broken only by occasional tense whispers from the spectators. Khitajrah stood near the far end of the courtroom, her head bowed and her back to the murmuring crowd. She faced the three-man tribunal who sat, with stony expressions, at their long table. Behind them, a doorway led to their chambers where they had deliberated for less than it took for the woman’s heart to beat two dozen strokes. Khitajrah never doubted that they would find her guilty. It was only the sentence that remained a mystery: imprisonment, mutilation, death.

Khitajrah raised her head slightly, her curly, shoulder-length black hair falling into eyes nearly as dark. Directly beside her, the guard stirred, attentive to her movement, though he did not otherwise respond to it. She was, after all, only a woman and, also, half his size. She twisted her gaze to the spectators, counting them to expend nervous energy. It was not her way to stand mute in the presence of injustice; her need for action had committed her to this trial that had proven little more than a recitation of her crimes. As an Eastland woman, she had no right to a defense, and the proceedings in the women’s court were a parody of justice.

Khitajrah’s gaze played over the seated rows of the audience. She counted eighteen, all men, and weaponless as the court law specified. Her son, Bahmyr, sat along one aisle, fidgeting helplessly. At twenty-three, he already sported the heavy frame and hard musculature of his father. Ebony hair fringed a handsome face, friendly despite growing up amid the cold evil of the Eastern culture. He was the last of Khitajrah’s children. Her other two sons, one older and one younger, had died in the Great War, along with their father, Harrsha, who had served as one of two high lieutenants to King Siderin.

The other seventeen spectators included family, curious neighbors, and soldiers. Among the latter, Khitajrah recognized at least two who had placed the blame for the defeat of the Eastern army on her late husband. That accusation, at least, seemed ludicrous. Khitajrah understood the need for these broken veterans to find a scapegoat, to blame the hundreds of casualties on a specific man whom they could curse and malign. As the chosen of the Eastlands’ one god, General-King Siderin must always remain a hero, though he had led his followers and himself to their deaths. But Harrsha had been Siderin’s last surviving high commander, and the Western warrior who had killed him on the battlefield was a woman.

A woman. Khitajrah pursed her lips in a tense frown, torn by the irony. She had fought for the dignity and worth of women for as long as she could remember: comforting those beaten, lending her strength to the overburdened, and stealing food and medication where needed. Now, at forty-three years old, she would pay the price for a lifetime of assisting her sisters and decades of walking the delicate boundaries of the law. Now that her cause finally stood a chance, she would fall in defeat, with no one to continue her work. The war had left women outnumbering men by three to one, and the Eastlands needed to use the guile and competence of their women, as well as their bodies, to keep the realm from lapsing into decay. The overtaxed farm fields could scarcely feed the populace, even with their numbers whittled by war.

The central man of the tribunal cleared his throat. Khitajrah returned her attention to them, her gaze sweeping briefly over the only armed men in the courtroom. Two burly soldiers guarded the door. Another stood, braced and watchful, between the tribunal and the crowd. The last remained at Khitajrah’s right hand, alert to her every movement.

This central man rose. ‘Friends. Freemen. It is the opinion of this court that this woman … this frichen-karboh …’ He paused on the word, one of the ugliest in the Eastern language. Literally, it translated to ‘manless woman, past usefulness,’ a derogatory term used for widows. In the East, a violent crime and a constant life of labor saw to it that a woman rarely outlasted her husband. When he died first, it was expected that she, and her unattached female children, would suicide on his pyre. ‘… this one called Khita is guilty of theft, of inciting women, and of treason in the eyes of the one god, Sheriva.’ Though he spoke formally, he used the shortened form of Khitajrah’s name, as if to imply that she was not worth the effort of a third syllable. ‘She is guilty.’

‘Guilty,’ the judge to the speaker’s right echoed.

‘Guilty,’ the other concurred.

Khitajrah stiffened. Though the law condemned dissent or revolt, thoughts of these rose naturally. She had spied on her husband when he taught their sons the art of war. Hard labor, her own and that which she had spared weaker women, had honed her agility. Stealing from men had taught her to climb, twist, and dodge. And, since the Great War, Bahmyr had worked with his mother on strike and parry, his love for her outweighing the risk of violating Eastern rules. It had never been his or Khitajrah’s desire to break the laws that had become a fixed part of their culture for millennia, only to revise them. Without change, the Eastlanders as a people would die.

The speaker continued. ‘We sentence Khita Harrsha’s-widow …’ His dark eyes met Khitajrah’s, strong and intense; they seemed to bore through her. The woman had been trained since infancy to look down in deference, yet this time she met him stare for stare.

Caught off-guard by her boldness, the speaker lost his place. Flustered, he glanced away first, covering his weakness by turning his glare on the guard at Khitajrah’s side. ‘… sentence Khita to work the silver mine until the end of her life.’

Slow death. Khitajrah knew they had given her the worst sentence of all, an anonymous and prolonged death. Starvation and cave-ins took those strong enough to survive the constant pace of working to the limit of the most competent prisoner from moment to moment, without rest. Few lived out a year in the mines. Khitajrah had expected death, yet it should have come in the form of a public execution, as an example to the other Eastland women. Given the chance to defy crying out at the tribunal’s torture or to speak last words, Khitajrah could have become a martyr to her cause, her death the shock that might have driven others to take her place.

‘No!’ Khitajrah screamed. She whirled, managing to turn halfway toward the audience before the guard caught her arm in a grip like iron. His sword rasped from its sheath, its edge coming to rest at her throat. Despite the threat, she struggled against him.

The spectators erupted into a wild, indecipherable hubbub.

Drawing swords, the guards by the door leapt forward to assist. Even as they moved, Bahmyr sprang to his feet, catching the nearest one’s hand where it clutched the sword’s hilt. The guard spun toward him. Bahmyr stomped his booted instep on the guard’s foot. In the same motion, he caught the haft, whipped it fully free of its sheath, and buried the blade in its wielder’s gut.

The son’s voice rang out over the others, clearly audible. ‘Mother, run!’ Freeing the sword, he shoved the guard’s corpse away. The other hacked high. Bahmyr’s parry rang against the guard’s attack. His counter slash opened sleeve and sword arm. The soldier’s arm flopped to his side, his sword clanging to the floor.

Khitajrah’s guard spun to face the attack, his sword falling from the woman’s throat. He shoved her violently aside, his blade cutting the air above her head, and he leapt for Bahmyr.

‘No!’ Khitajrah made a desperate grab, catching the man’s hilt and hand as he spun. Using the technique her son had taught her, she twisted violently downward, breaking the guard’s grip. The effort took her to her knees, the sword still clenched in her grip. Unable to recover quickly enough to defend, she hurled herself against the guard’s legs. The man staggered onto Bahmyr’s stop thrust, the sword impaling him cleanly through the abdomen.

The guard screamed. Bahmyr’s cry sounded equally agonized. ‘Behind you!’ He choked off the last syllable in shock or pain.

Still on her knees, Khitajrah whirled toward the tribunal. She met the last guard’s attack as much from instinct as her son’s warning. Steel crashed, chiming against steel, the man’s strength driving her to her buttocks. Blow after blow followed, each so fast and hard she could do little more than block. She waited for Bahmyr to come to her aid. Between them, they could handle her enemy. Yet her son did not come.

Fatigue wore on Khitajrah. She exaggerated its effect, whipping a frightened gaze to the man above her. She met an expression of icy cruelty, devoid of mercy. His blade slammed against hers once more. She gave with the motion, all but pressed to the wooden floor. The instant he raised his weapon for a final strike, she lunged, slamming her hilt into his groin with all the power she could land behind the blow. The guard collapsed, hand still clutching his sword.

Hands, throat, side of the chest. Calling on Bahmyr’s training, Khitajrah naturally struck for a kill. She hacked at his neck. The blow lacked the power to inflict serious damage, but the draw cut she used to recover the blade opened his throat. Blood splattered, warm droplets pelting her, and the guard went limp at her feet.

Khitajrah rose, assessing the situation in an instant. Bahmyr sprawled, facedown, in the aisle, blood washing from a wound in his back at the level of a kidney. Another knife cut ravaged the tunic she had sewn for him, now dark with her son’s blood. The sight paralyzed her. She stood, sword still in her clenched fist. All color drained from her and, with it, all her will to fight.

From behind Bahmyr, two veterans of the Great War advanced on Khitajrah. She knew both men well. Diarmad had been the first to disparage her dead husband, laying blame on the commander, at the top of his lungs, from the curtain wall of the king’s palace. The other had engineered this mockery the tribunal dared to call a trial.

The elder who had pronounced Khitajrah’s sentence shouted. ‘Stop her at any cost!’

Some of the audience sat, rooted. Others leapt to obey, charging down on Khitajrah with her son’s killers in the lead. The judges ran around their table toward her.

Attacked from all sides, Khitajrah mobilized as well. She whirled, running directly for the judges’ bench. Footsteps pounded behind her, liberally mixed with shouts and threats of violence. As she sprinted for the bench, the judges hurried around it, to corner her against it.

Khitajrah did not slow. She sprang to the surface of the table, dark hair flying behind her, entwined with her cloak hood. For an instant, she balanced there. Then, her momentum drove the table over backward. Wood crashed, splintering against planking. She dodged free as the judges scattered, leaving her an open path to their chambers.

‘Get her!’ the speaker shrieked.

A knife whizzed by Khitajrah’s head. Its hilt struck the door frame and bounced, skittering across the floor. She threw a quick glance around the room, finding its furnishings wastefully excessive at a time when the Eastlanders could scarcely feed what remained of their masses. Pillows covered the floor, surrounded by half-eaten platefuls of beef and grapes and goblets of wine. Three desks lined the walls, festooned with intricately carved leaves and vines. Above one, a window overlooked the mazelike alleyways of the Eastlands’ royal city.

Khitajrah hurled the sword blindly behind her. Its length in her hand could only hamper her escape. She hoped throwing it might gain her the precious moments she needed to maneuver. She had prowled the streets of Stalmize enough times to know them by heart, even under the cover of night’s darkness. Although she had never entered the tribunal’s quarters, she knew its window from the outside. It opened a story over a populous street, full of vendors and shops. Though it would leave her exposed and hemmed in by crowds, a few steps could take her in any of a thousand directions. If she worked her way into the street, she had a chance of evading pursuit.

Khitajrah made a wild leap for the desktop. A hand snagged her sleeve. The sudden jerk of motion tore the cloth and stole momentum. Jarred backward, she missed the desk, crashing to the floor and skidding half beneath the desk. She sprang to a crouch, banging her head against the underside of the desk. Pain howled through her head. A foot lanced toward her. She dodged, twisting, hurling her body up and over the desktop, and rolling through the window.

Khitajrah’s mind told her the fall was too far for an uncontrolled landing. She clawed, managing to catch a grip on the sill. Splinters jabbed beneath her nails. Then, a knife blade slashed the back of her hand, and she recoiled reflexively.

Khitajrah fell. She twisted, her body still lithe from training, despite her age. She scrambled for a hold on the masonry of the building. Stone snapped her fingernails into grimy irregularity. The touches friction-burned her flesh and made the wound in her hand throb, but it slowed her descent. She landed on her feet on the cobbled roadway, bent her knees, tucked, and rolled at random. Her already aching head pounded over stone, then struck a woman burdened with two buckets of water.

The stranger sprawled, dropping her cargo. Water splashed over Khitajrah, chilling her. Sense of direction lost, she spun and scrambled to her feet, ducking into the nearest alley. Pained, bleeding, and haunted by images of her son’s corpse on the courtroom floor, Khitajrah Harrsha’s-widow sought to lose herself in the rabbit warren snarl of Stalmize’s streets.

Surf battered the Northern coastline of the country of Asci leaving jagged cascades of stone. Colbey Calistinsson stood, legs braced and balanced, on a fjord overlooking the wild slam of the waves. Spray stung his clean-shaven face, the youthful features belying his seventy-seven years. Golden wisps still graced his short, white hair, and he studied the Amirannak Sea through icy, blue-gray eyes that had not changed, in look or acuity, since his youth. A longsword hung at either hip, their presence as familiar as his hands. Though he paid his companion, the Eastern Wizard, and the Wizard’s wolf no heed, his mind naturally registered their every movement.

Shadimar spoke. ‘Colbey, we need to talk.’

Colbey said nothing. He studied the jeweled chop of the waters a little longer before turning slowly to meet the Wizard’s gaze. The measured delay was an affectation. Should the need arise, the old Renshai could strike more quickly than most men could think to watch for the movement. But he had found that Shadimar equated slow deliberateness with competence, and the appearance of mastery seemed to unnerve the Eastern Wizard more than its actuality. Months ago, when Colbey had fought for the lives and freedom of the few remaining Renshai, Shadimar had misinterpreted a prophecy. Their blood brotherhood had dissolved in the wake of Shadimar’s distrust. Though Shadimar had apologized, in his subtle and not-quite-satisfying manner, Colbey still harbored some bitterness that took the form of keeping the Wizard always slightly uncertain. Few things unbalanced or bothered the Wizard more.

Always patient, Shadimar waited. His silver beard hid his craggy, ancient face, and eyes the gray of the ravaged stone remained fixed on Colbey. Wind whipped Shadimar’s blue velvet robes, and the fur trim eddied, but the Cardinal Wizard stood steady. Secodon waited at his master’s side. Empathetically linked with Shadimar, the wolf often betrayed emotions that the Eastern Wizard carefully hid. Now, the beast remained as still as his master.

Though a long time had passed, Colbey responded directly to Shadimar’s request. ‘What do you want to talk about?’

‘The next step in your training, Western Wizard.’

The form of address bothered Colbey, and he frowned, eyes narrowed in annoyance. Decades ago, he had traveled to the cave of Tokar, the Western Wizard, because of an old promise the Renshai Tribe had made to the Wizard. While there, he had witnessed the Western Wizard’s ceremony of passage, a rite that killed Tokar and was to have passed his knowledge and essence, and that of all of the Western Wizards before him, to his apprentice. Colbey had interfered, attempting to rescue the centuries old Wizard from the demons that had come to claim him.

Though the thought surfaced quickly and fleetingly, it brought, as always, crisp clear memories of the pain that had assailed Colbey then. Agony lanced through him, vivid enough to make him wince, softening the glare he aimed at Shadimar. Despite all the wounds he had taken in battle, this memory ached worse, an agony he had never managed to fully escape. And with that pain had come a madness. Shadimar recalled the decade he had spent combating voices and presences and their compulsions in his mind. One by one, he had fought with and destroyed them, in the process honing his own self-discipline and mental competence until he had found the perfect balance between mind and body. And more. As he gained mastery, he found himself occasionally reading the thoughts and emotions of others around him. Over time he discovered that, with great effort, he could actively read minds, though he considered this intrusion too rude to attempt against any but enemies.

At first, Shadimar had attributed Colbey’s abilities to the incorporation of a stray piece of magic during Tokar’s ceremony in the form of a magical being called a demon. Much later, he hypothesized that Tokar had shifted the focus of his ceremony from his apprentice to Colbey. And, though wholly against his will, Colbey had become the next Western Wizard.

‘Soon, a ship will arrive to take us to the Wizards’ Meeting Island. There, you will undergo the Seven Tasks of Wizardry that Odin created to assess the competence of each Cardinal Wizard’s apprentice. You should have passed these before Tokar …’

Shadimar continued while Colbey’s mind wandered. He knew from pieces of previous conversations that each of the four Cardinal Wizards took an apprentice when the time of his or her chosen passing became imminent. An apprentice then had to undergo seven god-mediated tasks to prove his worth. Failure at any one meant death. The challenge intrigued Colbey, yet Shadimar’s unspoken thoughts interested him more. Because Colbey had destroyed the collective consciousness of the Western Wizards, one at a time, he had none of their magic to guide him. And, since he had received no training from his predecessor, he had learned none of the Wizard’s magics in that manner. Shadimar believed, without a thread of doubt, that this lack would doom Colbey to fail all of the tasks. And, to Colbey, the Wizard’s cocksure dismissal made the challenge nearly irresistible.

‘… finished, you will truly be the Western Wizard in every way, save one.’

The exception pulled Colbey back to Shadimar’s words, though he already guessed the missing qualification.

Shadimar confirmed Colbey’s thought. ‘You will not have your predecessors to guide you. Though I thought little of Tokar’s apprentice, I can’t fully fathom my colleague’s choice to abandon Haim for you.’

Since Shadimar’s proclamation that Colbey was the Western Wizard, ideas had tumbled through the old Renshai’s mind. Believing he understood the reasons, Colbey addressed Shadimar’s implied question. ‘There was a madness in the Western Wizard’s line.’

Shadimar nodded agreement. It was common knowledge to the Wizards that the ninth Western Wizard, Niejal the Mad, was paranoid, gender confused, and suicidal, presumably due to the collective consciousness itself. His insanity had warped others in the line, the flaw passing as easily as the memories and skill. Shadimar’s head froze in mid-movement as the deeper implications became clear. Accustomed to subtlety, the Eastern Wizard was momentarily stopped by the pointed directness of the warrior’s comments. ‘Are you saying Tokar chose you because he knew you could destroy an entire line of Wizards, including millennia of irreplaceable wisdom?’

Colbey shrugged. Shadimar had taken it one step further than his intention, and the mentioned wisdom seemed of little consequence. Aside from a distant attack that had sent a soldier crashing from parapets, a feat Colbey had matched with his own mental power, he had never seen a Wizard create magic more powerful than sleight of hand or illusion. He had once fought a creature Shadimar named a demon, which the Eastern Wizard claimed one of his colleagues must have called, but Colbey had not witnessed the summoning. Time had taught him that knowledge came with age and experience. Still, though he lived through as much now as in his youth, the wisdom seemed to come in smaller doses as he gathered what the world had to offer. His skill and understanding became honed in tinier, finer detail with each passing year. He wondered if the difference between learning for millennia and a century was really all that much. ‘Actually, I don’t know if Tokar expected me to destroy the entire line. I do believe he thought I could kill or contain the insanity.’

Shadimar frowned. ‘An illogical thought. To destroy that much power would require mental powers stronger than all of the other three Wizards together.’

Colbey smiled, ever so slightly. ‘Not so illogical. I did it, didn’t I?’

Shadimar hesitated just long enough to display his doubts. Apparently, he still had not fully convinced himself that Colbey was the Western Wizard rather than a man under the influence of demons. ‘The issue is not whether or not you destroyed the Western Wizard’s line. It is forever gone, along with its knowledge. The issue is whether Tokar had reason to believe you could do so. It should be impossible to fight a collective consciousness, let alone destroy one. No Cardinal Wizard would believe otherwise.’

Colbey shrugged again. Clearly Shadimar was wrong. There was no need nor reason to say so. Still, silence seemed rude, so the Renshai tried to make his point tactfully. ‘Maybe Tokar knew something you don’t.’

‘Maybe,’ Shadimar replied. A thought that served as explanation drifted from the Eastern Wizard to Colbey without effort or intention. It has always been Odin’s way to make the Western Wizard the strongest of the four and the Eastern Wizard the weakest. Maybe Tokar did know something. Understanding accompanied the idea. Colbey learned that this discrepancy had existed since the system of the Cardinal Wizards had begun, and no logical reason for the imbalance had ever come to the attention of the Eastern Wizards. Colbey also discovered that the Western Wizard’s line was not the only one that had lost its collective consciousness. In the past, the Eastern line had been broken twice and the Southern line once, in all three cases because the current Wizard had died before his time of passing. Though twenty-four Eastern Wizards had existed since the system began, Shadimar carried the memories of only six.

Silence fell. As if in sympathy, the wind dropped to an unnatural stillness and clouds scudded overhead, veiling the sun. Secodon sat, whining softly. For all his quiet stillness, the Wizard was apparently bothered by his thoughts.

At length, Shadimar met Colbey’s gaze again. He raised an arm, the fur-trimmed sleeve of his velvet robe a stark contrast to Colbey’s simple brown tunic and breeks. ‘There are still things we need to discuss. Since the beginning of the system of the Cardinal Wizards, just before the beginning of mankind, the Western and Eastern Wizards have worked in concert, for the good of neutrality and its peoples, the Westerners.’

Colbey frowned at Shadimar’s stiff formality. Although he came from a Northern tribe, technically under the protection of the Northern Sorceress, who championed goodness, he had long ago pledged his services to the Westlands.

Shadimar continued. ‘Some have physically worked together as a team. Others have worked separately for the same cause. I would like to work closely with you. In harmony.’ His glance sharpened.

‘You were the one who broke our bond of brotherhood,’ Colbey reminded him.

Shadimar’s mouth clamped closed, and he dismissed his disloyalty as if it held no significance. At the time, his actions had followed logic, and apologies were not his way. ‘That matter has not been fully laid to rest.’ Secodon rose, pacing between Wizard and Renshai. Shadimar’s brow wrinkled, as if he sought an answer to a question he had not asked.

Annoyed, as always, by the Eastern Wizard’s subtlety, Colbey struck for the heart of the matter. ‘What do you want from me, Shadimar? I could read your mind, but we both know that would be impolite.’ Colbey understated the seriousness of the offense. Shadimar had made it quite clear that only the four Cardinal Wizards were capable of invading thoughts, and then only those of other Cardinal Wizards. To do so uninvited, however, was considered a crime equaled only by blasphemy.

‘That, Colbey, is exactly what I want from you.’ Shadimar measured each word as a swordsman in a battle on ice watches every movement. ‘You once told me you had nothing to hide. You gave me permission to enter your mind. But when I tried, you built barriers against me. I want another entrance. This time, unhindered.’ Shadimar’s gaze dropped to the sword at Colbey’s left hip, an enchanted weapon that bore the name Harval, the Gray Blade. As an end result of the Seven Tasks of Wizardry, the Wizards’ apprentices became immune to harm from any object of Law; therefore, the Cardinal Wizards and their apprentices could be physically harmed only by their chosen ceremonies of passage, by demons, and by the three Swords of Power. Harval was one of the three, all the more dangerous since Shadimar had placed it in the hands of the most competent swordsman in existence.

Colbey remained calm, though the incident that Shadimar recalled brought memories of a bitter time. Then, assailed by doubts about his own long-held religious beliefs and his loyalty to the tribe he had served since birth, Colbey had needed the comfort of his blood brother. Shadimar had chosen that moment to turn against him. Colbey had tried to assert his innocence by giving the Eastern Wizard access to his thoughts, but his mind had not permitted Shadimar’s entrance. ‘I’ll do my best. I don’t know how to convince you that I never intended to block you out. Just tell me how to get rid of those things you call barriers, and I’ll do it.’

Shadimar retreated from the edge of the fjords, propping his back against an irregularity in the crags. The cover of clouds thickened, and the windless stillness remained. ‘You need to do nothing. All it requires is that you don’t fight me.’

Colbey did not believe that to be the case. His few excursions into other men’s minds had cost him more dearly in stamina and energy than days of continuous battle. But the other time that Shadimar had attempted to read Colbey’s thoughts, the old Renshai had expelled him without any conscious attention or will. He knew that his mind powers worked differently than those of the Cardinal Wizards. His had come to him even before he had met Tokar, a product of his martial training in endurance and control. He could read the minds of mortals, where the others could not; and his intrusions into the Wizard’s mind had gone unnoticed, although they always recognized one another’s presences. Still, Shadimar seemed fixed in the belief that Colbey was resisting him. Rather than fight the misconception, Colbey chose to try to give the Eastern Wizard what he wanted.

‘I’ll do my best.’ Colbey crouched, spine flat against a jagged tower of stone, his position defensive. A single breeze riffled the short feathers of his hair, then faded into the brooding stillness of the day. He closed his eyes, turning his thoughts inward. He concentrated on keeping his mind as flat and still as the weather.

A foreign presence touched Colbey’s mind tentatively.

Though he noticed the intrusion, Colbey willed his consciousness away from it, struggling against curiosity and his natural need to defend. Still, Shadimar’s being seemed to burn a pathway through his mind, its presence so defined and out of place it pained him. And, in seeking to invade Colbey’s thoughts, Shadimar inadvertently brought some of his own essence and emotion with him. Though Colbey made no attempt to counter the exploration, he could not stop the inklings of Shadimar’s judgment that seeped through the cracks.

At first, Shadimar waded through seventy years of war technique and the private battle maneuvers invented by the Renshai tribe. He met these with a patient self-satisfaction. Obviously, this mass of knowledge neither surprised nor interested him.

Colbey kept his own emotions at bay. To lose control meant thwarting Shadimar and he knew from experience that that would hurt the Wizard as well as destroy the fragile friendship they had tried to reconstruct. Still, Shadimar’s cavalier dismissal of the tenets that had driven and guided Colbey’s life since birth bothered the old Renshai. Attributing it to cultural differences and closed-mindedness, he let it pass unchallenged.

Soon, Shadimar found the supporting tendrils of Colbey’s Northern religion, and he followed one of these toward the core. As the