The Western Wizard by Mickey Zucker Reichert Page B

He heard no breathing other than his own and the girl’s. Satisfied they were alone, he dried moist palms on his tunic and headed to her bedside with the assurance of a man in a place where he belonged. “Is King Morhane your
noca?
” He guessed that her bravado stemmed from years of exposure to foreign courtiers. She had little to fear in a heavily guarded castle.
    Miyaga hugged her knees to her chest, giggling. “You talk funny.”
    Garn fought impatience, kneading his fingers to restore the circulation and to work away tension and pain. He supposed his Béarnese must sound as imperfect as Sterrane’s broken rendition of the trading tongue. “So, is he your grandfather?”
    Still snickering, she nodded assent.
    Garn threw up his hands in an exaggerated gesture of sudden understanding. “Then I’m your uncle, Garn.”
    “Uncle . . . Garn?” She examined Garn, apparently uncertain of the significance of the title, but intuitively understanding it meant family.
    “Which is
Noca
’s room?” Garn dropped his voice to a soft, conspiratorial whisper. “I’ve got a surprise for him.”
    Miyaga’s eyes fairly danced. “Can I see?”
    “Not yet. First tell me where his room is.”
    “Down there.” Miyaga pointed to the left of the door to her room, stretched the trim of her robe to her knees, and smiled. “Two down. Are you really my uncle? What’s the surprise?”
    Garn fingered his dagger, the child’s coy innocence like a lead weight in his chest. Miyaga’s description only confirmed the location of Morhane’s chambers, and Garn recognized his discussion with the child as a delaying tactic. No doubt she had to die; Garn dared not take a chance with his own life, the safety of his wife, and Sterrane’s kingdom. But the idea of killing a child awakened a deep-seated ache of guilt he never knew he could feel. Sorrow descended like a storm. His own son, Rache, might be nearly as old as Miyaga before Garn held him again.
    Memories surfaced in a hot rush, of the baby’s near weightlessness against his chest and the joy that lit Mitrian’s eyes whenever Rache had smiled. Yearning formed a hard knot in Garn’s stomach. While his parents tended politics in a distant kingdom, Rache lived with the grandfather who had kept Garn a slave. While Garn attempted to usurp the mountain king with only a dagger and a flask of drugged wine, Rache was learning combat from the master of all swordsmen, adopting a reckless, savage heritage that might turn the world against him. Garn tried to picture his child, now a little more than two years old, but he could only visualize the baby he had not held for longer than a year. He knew that, in his place, Mitrian could not have slaughtered this little girl.
And neither can I.
    Garn slid the dagger back into his pocket. As he did, his arm brushed the bulge of the drugged wine, and itgave him an idea. Surely, the Wizard had left a margin of error on the amount of wine he would need for Morhane.
Even if there’s not enough for both, I’d rather put the girl to sleep and kill the usurper than the other way around.
“This is the surprise.” Crossing the room, he plucked the silver mug from her book shelf. “I brought a special drink for your
noca.
But because you’re so beautiful, I’d like you to taste it first.” He removed the bladder of wine, returned to Miyaga’s side, and perched on the edge of her bed. “You’ll try it for me?”
    Miyaga stared into his green eyes. She wrapped a hand about his well-muscled arm as he filled the mug with wine. “I like you, Uncle Garn.”
    “I like you, too.”
Obviously.
Garn handed her the cup, doubting Shadimar had given him enough of the sleeping poison for two, even if one was a child. Still, Garn did not brood. Getting Morhane to drink the drug-laced wine had always seemed the weak link in an otherwise reasonable plan. Shadimar had insisted that Garn take Morhane alive, leaving the pronouncement of punishment to the true king.