The Awakened Mage (11 page)

Bloody Holze clearly did … or wanted to. He was beaming like a maiden aunty at the birth of a new nephew. Orrick? Well, who could tell? Orrick’s inscrutable face revealed nothing except, perhaps, a smidgin of grave approval. For himself, he’d as soon believe he could vault straight over the Wall. And as for Gar—

Gar was still smiling. Self-contained and seemingly satisfied. No warmth in his eyes, though. He wasn’t fooled, not he, after a lifetime with these people. For there was no warmth in Jarralt’s eyes either, if ever there had been or could be. This was just a breathing space in the battle. A momentary pause in hostilities. Because Conroyd Jarralt would no sooner give up his dreams of a crown than— than—the late and unlamented Princess Fane would’ve kissed a commoner in the street, and Gar knew it.

“And now we have that settled,” he said, “we must turn to Other pressing matters. Gentlemen, let us resume our seats.”

Asher waited for Gar to sit, then Jarralt, before sliding back into his own chair. Was it a trick of the light or did Captain Orrick spare him the merest hint of an approving nod as he, too, sat down again? Uncertain, he folded his hands primly on the table before him. Lowered his eyelids to half-mast and let his gaze discreetly rest on Gar’s face as he tried to work out what was coming next.

Gar sat in silence, collecting his thoughts. He looked remade. Gone was the magickless prince, fallible and vulnerable and endearingly human. In the space of a few scant hours tragedy had remolded Gar into a portrait of untouchable, unreachable monarchy, as distant and unknowable as any daubed onto canvas in the last six hundred years. Asher thought it was like looking at a stranger, and felt a chill shiver through him.

“Obviously, the first order of business is to inform the kingdom of yesterday’s tragic events,” Gar said. “I will need you all to assist in this difficult task.”

Jarralt was asked to inform members of the General Council. Barlsman Holze would see that the kingdom’s Barlsmen and women were told and encouraged to offer all words of comfort to their grieving chapel districts. Asher was appointed the task of telling the palace staff and helping to coordinate the dozens of couriers and heralds required to spread the news throughout the City and the rest of the kingdom. Pellen Orrick was commanded to assist Asher in that detail, and also see to it that strict law and order was maintained in Dorana once the sad news broke.

“What about Matcher’s widow?” said Asher. “She’s been sittin’ at home under guard since last night.”

For a moment Gar looked nonplussed, as though he’d never heard of the royal coachman. Then: “Yes. Of course. Dismiss the guards and present yourself to the lady, Asher. Extend to her my deepest sympathies for her bereavement. Assure her she need have no fears of hardship; there will be a generous pension. And thank her for her discretion in this delicate matter.”

Asher swallowed a groan. More grief, more tears … “Aye, sir.”

With Durm indisposed, Gar continued, Barlsman Holze would announce his ascension to WeatherWorker that afternoon on the steps of Justice Hall, once the Barl’s Chapel bells had tolled for the late royal family. “While there is no question of my fitness or right to assume the throne,” he said, not looking at Jarralt, “the last WeatherWorker to die without first publicly declaring an heir was Queen Drea. That was more than two centuries ago. Therefore, above all, we must forestall any misgivings amongst the population: they should know their lives will continue in safety and prosperity, no matter whose head supports the crown.”

“An excellent idea,” Holze approved. “And what of your coronation?”

Gar frowned at his laced fingers. “Tradition dictates a WeatherWorker be crowned in the presence of his or her Master Magician.”

“Then it would appear,” said Conroyd Jarralt, smoothly, “we have a problem. Your Majesty.”

“Not yet we don’t, Conroyd.”

“But as you rightly point out, you cannot be crowned WeatherWorker without—”

“Yes, I can,” said Gar, glaring. “It’s tradition, not law.”

“That’s true,” conceded Jarralt. “At least as far as the coronation is concerned. However, it
is
stated in law that a WeatherWorker cannot rule without the guidance of a Master Magician. And while Durm draws breath today, each moment might be his last. Admit that much, at least Your Majesty.”

“I’d be a fool not to consider the possibility,” said Gar, his voice thin with leashed temper. “But that’s all it is: a possibihty. For the good of the kingdom I shall be crowned WeatherWorker at midnight on Barl’s Day after next whether Durm is revived or not. Two weeks after that I shall reconsider his position.”

Hungry as a hunting cat, Jarralt leaned forward. “Against all urgings and advice, Durm has neither named nor trained his successor. The choice will be yours.”

“He felt that to prematurely appoint his own hen-would be to invite … unrest,” said Gar coldly. “There is historical precedent for his concern. My father was satisfied with the decision, therefore—”

“Your father did not foresee the current crisis. If he had, then we wouldn’t—”

“Conroyd!” said Holze, shocked. “Please!”

Gar raised a quelling hand. “It’s true our lives would be simpler had Durm made his choice before now. He didn’t. And as he still breathes I have no intention of replacing him or usurping his right to name his successor. At least not until I must. His life rests in Barl’s hands now, gentlemen. I suggest we wait and see what she intends to do with it before we visit this matter again.”

Holze cleared his throat, breaking the charged silence. “There is one other thing we should touch upon, if only briefly.”

“The funerals,” said Gar. “Yes. My family shall lie a month in state, Holze, in the palace’s Grand Reception Hall, so that all in the kingdom who wish to do so might pay their final respects. After that time they shall be interred privately in our house vault. Asher—”

He sat up. “Sir?”

“I’m charging you, Darran and Captain Orrick with the responsibility of arranging the public viewings.”

“Sir,” he said, and swallowed a sigh. He didn’t mind the prospect of working closely with Orrick. But with
Darran!
“What about the actual interment? You want me to—”

Gar shook his head. “I’ll worry about that. Holze, you and I will meet to discuss the matter.”

“Certainly, sir,” said Holze. “At your convenience, naturally. And your removal to the palace? When can we expect that?”

“The business of good government does not require my nightgown to be hung in a palace wardrobe,” said Gar. “When I am more accustomed to my new estate I shall revisit the matter of leaving the Tower. Not before.”

Holze, no fool, could recognize a door when it was slammed shut in his face. He nodded. “Certainly, Your Majesty.”

“And the Wall, Majesty?” asked Jarralt. “The weather, and its Working?”

“Aren’t matters you need be concerned with, my lord,” replied Gar. “Thanks to Durm’s prudence and foresight I have the necessary skills at hand.”

“But lacking a Master Magician, sir, and yourself… unpracticed, in the art of WeatherWorking, surely—”

“I am my father’s son, Conroyd,” said Gar. “I need no more qualification than that.” He stood. “Gentlemen, you have your assigned duties. Apply yourselves to their commission without further delay.”

Scrambling to his feet with the rest of them, Asher watched Gar leave the Privy Council chamber like a slender, haughty cat. Watched Conroyd Jarralt frown, wait a moment, then leave and turn out of the doorway to walk in the opposite direction. Watched Holze sigh, and smooth his unadorned braid with unhappy fingers, and follow Jarralt

“So,” said Pellen Orrick once they were alone. “Meister Privy Councilor now, eh?”

He swallowed bile. “It weren’t my bloody idea!”

“I know,” said Orrick. “I saw your face when he said it”

Resisting the urge to spit sour saliva on the chamber floor, he said, “About yesterday. Your findings. Was it really an accident?”

“Why?” said Orrick. “Do you doubt my competence now, along with our good Lord Jarralt?”

He scowled. “Course not. Just… it seems wrong, somehow, all those powerful magicians brought low by an
accident.”

“I see,” said Orrick, amused. “Feeling a touch mortal, are you?” He shrugged. “Doranen die, Asher, just like we do. Their magic can’t protect them from everything. I’ve known Doranen who choked on a fishbone. Broke their necks falling down a flight of stairs. Drowned in their bathtub. Death has no rhyme or reason. It comes for us all, making up its own mind as to when and how.”

Still scowling, Asher scuffed at the chamber floor with his boot heel. “I know, but—”

“But you want it to make sense.” Orrick laughed. “I was right last night. You do have a guardsman’s mind.” Sobering, he stared out of a chamber window. “If you’re asking whether I think these deaths out of the ordinary, then yes, I do. But beyond that? I have neither reason nor proof to question Pother Nix and Barlsman Holze’s findings. Nor your innocence, or His Majesty’s, or even that of Lord Conroyd Jarralt, though as a man I find him … distasteful.”

Surprised, Asher stared at Orrick. ‘That ain’t very discreet of you, Captain.”

Orrick stared back. “Why? Are you a tattle-tongue?”

He just snorted and shook his head. “Gar— His Majesty, I mean, he seems—”

“He’s a king without warning, Asher. A young man whose whole family has just died in violent, sudden circumstances. He wears his royalty like a suit of armor, to keep emotion at bay.” Orrick smiled then, mockery and sympathy combined. “Are you feeling slighted?”

“No,” he said, affronted. “Reckon I’m feelin’...” _Sorry. Scared. Uncertain. Overwhelmed. _”Hungry.”

“Then eat.”

“Ha. Who’s got time, Captain?”

“Call me Pellen. Since it seems we’re to be working hand in glove, for a while at least. And speaking of which—”

“Aye?” he said.

“I’d like to sit down with you, once I’ve prepared my men for what’s coming,” said Orrick. “Look at calling an urgent meeting of all the guilds’ representatives. When this sad news breaks, the streets will be awash in tears, I think.”

Asher nodded. “And the guilds are in a better position than we are to keep their members under control. That’s good thinking, Cap—Pellen.”

“When you’ve a moment to scratch yourself send a runner down to the guardhouse,” said Orrick. “I’ll come up as soon after as I can.”

“Provided you ain’t had to lock me up for throttlin’ that ole biddy Darran. ‘Cause I’m tellin’ you, Pellen, it ain’t beyond the bounds of possibihty.”

“Well, don’t hold back on my account,” said Orrick, straight-faced. “We could meet in your cell, then, which would save me a trip to the Tower.”

It took him a moment to realize the joke. Who’d have thought it? Hatchet-faced Orrick with a sense of humor.

“Ha!” he said, warmed, and headed for the door. “Very funny.”

Pellen Orrick fell into step beside him. Smiled, swiftly and with a dry amusement. “I thought so.”

Undisturbed by customers, Dathne was tidying shelves when she heard the first faint, waiting cries from the street outside her bookshop. Turning, she looked through the display window to see her alarmed neighbors spilling out of their premises like ants from a stick-stirred nest, pushing and shoving in a cluster round Mistress Turtle from the bakery five doors along. Mistress Turtle was flapping her hands in a frenzy as she spoke, her oven-flushed cheeks streaked with tears.

Dathne felt her breath catch as relief warred with sorrow. So. The news was out then. Which meant she could put down one burdensome secret, at least, and worry instead about what next Prophecy would send to try her. Not more death, she fervently hoped. Three lives—well, four if you counted poor Matcher—and five if you included Asher’s father—had already been sacrificed for the sake of an uncertain future. To ensure that whatever must come to pass would come to pass, so Asher might be reborn as the Innocent Mage.

Why, Veira?
she’d asked the old woman the previous night, after telling her of the royal family’s fate.
Why would Prophecy need to kill so many?

Veira’s reply through the Circle Stone had been typical.
We don’t know it is Prophecy’s doing, child. But if it is then you should know there is a reason. Even if we can
7
see it for shadows.

As the uproar in the street outside intensified, Dathne starting shoving a new shelf of books into line. Reason or not, it seemed to her that Prophecy was being needlessly harsh. Surely events might have been managed without bloodshed, and suffering, and the look on Asher’s face as he fell into her outstretched arms.

Snared in memory she felt again the weight of him against her, his bone-deep trembling beneath her spreading hands. Heard for the thousandth relived time the way he exhaled her name like a prayer and drank her face down with his eyes. Fresh longing rose sharp within her like sap in the trees after winter…

No.
He was the Mage and she was the Heir. It was true they walked the same path at the same time, but they must journey alone, their hands never touching, their hearts unentwined. What she felt was sentiment, pure and simple, and Prophecy had no time or use for sentiment.
She
had no time or use for it. Sentiment would kill a lot more people than Prophecy ever could.

But oh … how hard it was to deny him. Hard, and day by day getting harder, for now she knew him.
Really
knew him, not simply as the living embodiment of Prophecy but as a man.

She knew he liked malt ale better than hop. Roast chicken, not sauced duck. Liked to sing, but out of mercy refrained in public. His favorite colors were green and blue. He thought play-acting in the theater was a ragtag-gin’ bloody great waste of time but would stand in front of a puppet show for an hour and never notice the time fly past. He was impatient of pretension, self-opinion and the puff-and-ruffle of guild meisters and their lackeys, yet gave his time, favors and sometimes money freely to those guild members he found in need. Complained bitterly if asked to read any kind of history book, but snuck peeks at the brightly illustrated fairy tales left lying about the shop for children to discover.