The Western Wizard by Mickey Zucker Reichert Page A

justify his jaunt into his brother’s room and fearing the elder boy’s wrath, he had never mentioned his find. On the day of Morhane’s attack, Béarn’s oldest prince had been away from his room. Sterrane alone had escaped, pulling the hatch closed so that Morhane’s men could not have followed, even had they known of the tunnel’s existence. At that time, the ash tree exit had stood just outside the castle wall. Now, the damp, rodent-filled darkness confirmed Shadimar’sclaim that only the king, his heir, his most trusted bodyguard, and the Eastern Wizard knew about the route.
    Light diffused through the crack. Hearing nothing, Garn poked his head into a room dimly illuminated by a single candle. Despite the gloom, rich furnishings struck a vivid contrast to the moldering plainness of the hidden tunnel. Multihued streamers dangled from the ceiling. Across the room, a simplistic pastel rendition of an animal-crowded forest encompassed an entire wall. To Garn’s right, a shelf held a line of thin books with Béarnese titles and a silver mug. On a bed to his left, a child huddled beneath a finely-woven blanket. Wisps of sable hair spread across the pillow.
    From long years of habit, Garn listened to the child’s breathing, hearing the deep, slow regularity that indicated sleep. No other sound reached him. Quietly, Garn hooked his fingers through the crack and hoisted himself through the hatch, using his shoulders and back to support the door. As he eeled his legs through the opening, he twisted to catch a grip on the panel. The wood-lined stone slipped beneath his breeks. His grab fell short. Fear touched Garn as the hatchway slammed toward closing. Desperate, he thrust his left hand for the opening. The door crashed onto his knuckles, causing pain that momentarily incapacitated him. Garn hissed, choking off a cry.
    The sleeper stirred. Her breaths quickened and went shallow.
    Grasping his spent torch, Garn worked an end beneath the hatch, levering it open far enough to free his fingers. He left the torch in place to brace the hatch. Redness washed across his fingers, threatening a long, ugly bruise. He bit his lip, waiting for the agony to ebb.
    The child rolled toward him. Black hair framed a round, olive-skinned face.
    Garn froze, shielding the entryway with his body. Seeing no place to hide, he chose silence instead. The knife slid into his hand.
    The girl’s lids parted to reveal dark eyes. They rolled briefly, then she looked directly at Garn. “
Noca?
” She used the Béarnese word for “grandfather.” She sat up,the fur trim of her sleeping gown ending in a jumble at her thighs. She looked no more than five or six years old.
    The ache in Garn’s fingers receded enough for him to drive it from his mind. He knew pain too well to let it steal his concentration when matters of consequence needed handling. It joined the background throb of his knees and the branch-stabbed bruises that peppered his body. He rose from his crouch, the dagger hidden, couched against his wrist. The steel felt cold and solid on his flesh, and the child looked small, no threat to his venture. Still, she only needed to cry out once to bring Morhane’s guards, to cause Garn’s execution, and to see to it that Sterrane never returned to his throne. Garn had hated the murder that Santagithi’s guards had forced him to commit in the pit, and the idea of harming a child seemed an evil too repulsive to contemplate.
What must be done must be done.
Garn grimaced at the thought.
Damn! Why did she have to wake so easily.
Stalling the inevitable, he spoke. “Hello,” he said in his best Béarnese, his voice sounding thick after the long silence. “Who are you?”
    The girl yawned. “Miyaga,” she said in a tone that implied he should not have needed to ask.
    Miyaga’s confident fearlessness, despite the wary stranger in her bedchamber, aroused Garn’s suspicions. He studied the room by the rapidly dimming candlelight. Nothing moved.