The Awakened Mage (20 page)

Barl save him. His night was going from bad to worse. “Friends? You and me?”

“Yes. After all, lots of people get off on the wrong foot to start with and then realize they were wrong about each other. Why not us?”

Why
not?
He didn’t know whether to laugh or vomit. “Willer—”

“Oh, please, Asher. At least think about it. Consider the idea of us making a fresh start.”

“Sure. I’ll consider it.”
Once I’m dead and buried…

Willer beamed. “Oh, that’s wonderful. Thank you. I promise you won’t regret it.”

He was regretting it already. “Fine. Grand. Goodnight, Willer.”

He left the little slug babbling his gratitude on the Tower’s front steps and took himself up to bed. Sent down for a supper of soup and hot bread then sat stubbornly in his cozy parlor, fighting sleep, until he heard Gar’s ragged footsteps on the staircase beyond.

Only then did he crawl into bed himself.

Gar woke late the next morning, grudgingly. The merest sliver of light between his drawn bedchamber curtains was like a scythe slicing through his head. His chest hurt and his screwed-tight eyes. His skin. His bones. His whole body overflowed with a grinding, remorseless pain.

Which was nothing compared with the exquisite torment of last night’s WeatherWorking.

Asher’s right, damn him. This really does have to stop…

Tentatively, he uncurled his clenching of limbs beneath the blankets and eased his eyelids open. The room tilted Spun like a top. His empty belly heaved, spasming. Good thing he’d forgone dinner or he’d be thrashing in its stinking remains right now …

With infinite reluctance, the violent nausea passed. Drenched in sweat he lay in his tangle of bedclothes and stared at the light-dappled ceiling until he could no longer ignore his nagging bladder.

His face in the privy closet mirror was horror enough to give little children nightmares.

Haphazard bathing and an unsteady shave lifted his spirits, marginally. More than anything he wanted to crawl back into bed and blot out the world for a day … a week … forever… but he had a sacred duty to perform.

No matter how ill and old he was feeling.

Breakfast was out of the question, so he dressed and went downstairs. Bad luck crossed his path with Darran’s in the Tower’s empty foyer. His secretary looked up from perusing some newly delivered message and didn’t quite stifle his shocked gasp.

“I know,” he said, forestalling a spate of consternation. “Death warmed over and so on and so forth. Consider it said and the conversation closed. Where’s Asher?”

Darran cleared his throat. “In meetings all day, sir. Did you wish me to—”

“No. No. Doubtless I’ll catch up with him in due course.”

“And you, sir? Where will you be, if you’re needed?”

“The family crypt. I’m going to create their effigies today, Darran. Immortalize them in marble. Assuming of course that the templates have been delivered?”

A reflection of his own pain shimmered in Darran’s eyes. “Yesterday, sir. While you were otherwise engaged. I did leave a note for you on your library desk, did you not—”

“I haven’t set foot in there for weeks.” After all this time he’d hoped to have made a start on the precious few books saved from Barl’s lost collection, but events had galloped past him.

“Never mind, sir,” said Darran gently. “Your books and scrolls aren’t going anywhere. When you’re ready, they’ll be waiting for you.”

He was so tired an old man’s kindness could touch him to tears. He patted Darran’s arm in passing and left him to his duties.

House Torvig’s crypt had been built in the grounds of the palace just after Trevoyle’s Schism. Its architect was his first royal ancestor, King Cleamon, who’d won the right by Duel Arcana for himself and all his descendants to call themselves WeatherWorkers, live in the palace and inter their dead in an opulent marble sepulcher crowned with the newly redesigned house emblem: a thunderbolt crossed with an unsheathed sword.

The chamber he’d chosen for his family’s final resting place was small. It seemed… fitting. They’d been close in life, after all. Why not rub shoulders in death, too? He bumped around it now like a fly in a honey pot, heedless of bruising his hip on the corner of one open, waiting coffin. Trying not to look at the three templates the undertakers had left here, propped on wooden saw-horses, ready for magical molding. One male figure, suitably kinglike. One female, dressed like a queen. And of course the lovely young girl’s body, representing Fane. He shuddered. These marble approximations were even more unsettling than his family’s actual bodies.

Abruptly tired, he dropped onto the bench seat cut into the chamber’s far wall and hid his face in his hands.

He was afraid.

The task awaiting him, a magical creation of their living faces in lifeless stone, was the last thing he’d ever do for them. Years from now, when he too was dead and sleeping beside them in this small cold place, strangers yet unborn would look upon what he wrought here today and believe that what they saw was
true.

He lifted his head to stare at the effigy that would become his sister. Its marble face was a blank white expanse, a clean slate, a held breath. The features he gave it here and now would
be
Fane, forever; he could give her a hook nose, bulbous lips, beady eyes or a lumpen, misshapen brow. He could pouch her cheeks like a greedy squirrel’s. Reduce her chin to a querulous afterthought He could make her as ugly on the outside as she’d been on the inside and nobody could stop him. She certainly couldn’t. She was dead.

Vivid as a crack of lightning he saw her: silver-gilt hair gleaming in the sunshine, limpid blue eyes sparkling with mischief, or maybe malice; the sound of her laughter rang in his head more clearly than any silver bell.

He stood. Moved to the lump of carved rock that must become his sister and, ignoring all pain and illness and bone-deep fatigue, summoned the transformation spell.

Untamed, untrammeled, the words surged through his mind like a storm tide, burst from his mouth like snow melt released, sweeping aside all fear. Power cascaded from the secret place inside, raged through his bloodstream, poured out of his fingertips and into the chilly waiting marble. Stone turned to cream beneath his hands, softened and slipped and slithered as memory and magic transformed rock into remembrance.

When at last it was done and Fane lay sleeping before him, beautiful and whole, he pressed his cold flesh lips to her warm stone forehead. Let his cheek rest against hers, and whispered into her immaculate ear.

“I could have made you ugly and I didn’t. Remember that, little sister. Remember 1 still love you, and this as well: you haven’t won. The magic remains mine. 1 did not seek this power and yet it came to me. 1 did not yearn to be WeatherWorker, but that is who 1 am. All of it Barl’s doing, not mine. I’m sorry you’re dead but 1 won’t betray our father by rejecting her gifts just because you couldn’t bring yourself to share.”

The pain behind his eyes was fierce now. Unforgiving. Feasting on the flickers of remaining magic in his blood. He ignored it. Glory was in him, and triumph, and a burning determination to see this sacred duty done.

His mother’s face came less glibly, exhaustion threatening her defeat. Grimly he beat back the scarlet tide even as he felt his face distort in a rictus of torment. When at last she lay before him, eyelashes curling, lips curved in a secret smile, he pillowed his aching head upon her breast and let his trembling fingers caress her hard white hair. In the crypt’s swaddling silence he thought he heard her singing, an old sweet lullaby of love and loss. He could have stayed there forever, except his task was not complete.

Stern and joyful, gentle and bold, his father waited.

This time the magic came forth snarling, like a cur dog dragged from the gutter. No riotous gushing but a mean trickle, dregs dripped from a guzzled keg. Panting, sweating, that thin keen wind beneath his skin howling now like one of Asher’s sea storms, he wrestled his reluctant power, screamed at it, cozened and commanded and demanded its obedience. The marble beneath his frenzied fingers seethed and surged, and in his mind’s eye the memory of his father’s face refused to stand still. Slipping and shding and shifting its focus, it wouldn’t let him see, wouldn’t let him remember, wouldn’t let him offer this last loving gesture in honor of the man he’d adored.

“I will do this! I
will!”
he shouted.
“Electha toh ranu! Ranu! Ranu!”

The ancient words of compulsion shuddered the crypt’s glimlit air. He felt the magic sear his veins like acid, excoriating his flesh. Something deep inside him twisted, tore, ripped his thoughts asunder with monstrous claws. In their place an endless emptiness, unfurling like a fledgling seed.

A profound silence. Then a fist of darkness crashed upon him and the world ended.

Halfway up the stairs to her apartment after double-checking Poppy’s bookwork for the day, Dathne heard the banging on the back door and groaned. “Go away!”

The banging continued. Cursing, she started down the stairs again.

“I’m coming, I’m
coming!
“[__] she protested, and flung open the door.
“What?”

Asher, resplendent in green velvet and dull gold brocade. She felt her heart constrict as betraying color flooded her cheeks.

“Oh. It’s you.”

He carried a sealed wine jug. Holding it up, tightly smiting, he said, “Care to help me drown my sorrows?”

For a moment she didn’t follow. Then, remembering his last meeting of the day, his meaning dawned. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” he replied. “Glospottle refused to see sense, and so did his poxy guild. So it’s arse over eyeballs and tits over toenails all the way to Justice Hall.”

It wasn’t funny, it truly wasn’t, but she had to press her lips hard together for a moment. “I’m so sorry.”

He shoved the wine jug at her. “Not as sorry as me. Just don’t laugh.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” She took the jug then looked past his shoulder into the small yard behind her shop. “Where’s Cygnet?”

“Snug in his bed. I walked. Needed the exercise, and the time to think.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“So you goin’ to ask me in then, or just take my wine and shut the door in my face?”

Again, she felt her cheeks heat. Stepping back, she said, “Sorry. Of course. Come in. Have you eaten?”

“Not lately,” he said, crossing her threshold. “Is that an invitation to dinner?”

“Yes,” she said after a moment. “I suppose it is.”

Three steps inside her tiny living room he stopped and stared around him, unabashedly curious. He’d never been inside her home before. Keeping him at a friendly arm’s length had always been her best defense.

It didn’t seem to be working anymore.

The tiny dining table was set for one, so after putting the wine jug in her equally tiny kitchen she fetched cutlery for him and a napkin.

He sniffed appreciatively. “Somethin’ smells good.”

“Rabbit stew,” she said, trying not to notice how easily he fitted into her home. “Not as fancy as the meals you’re used to these days, but—”

“It’s perfect,” he said. “Want me to pour some of that wine?”    .

She wished he wouldn’t smile like that: warmly, intimately … lovingly. “Why not? You’ve got those sorrows to drown, after all. Glasses are in the cupboard beside the sink.”

He went rummaging. “I’d rather drown Indigo bloody Glospottle.”

How many times could she straighten a knife and fork before she looked ridiculous? “In a big smelly vat of his own urine.”

That made him laugh, but the sound trailed off into a groan. He reappeared in the doorway, holding two glasses of palest green icewine. “Don’t bloody tempt me.” He shook his head. “Barl save me, Dath. I’m goin’ to
Justice Hall.
”

She took the glass he offered her. “And not in chains, which is the biggest surprise of all.”

That made him laugh too. It felt good to know she had the power to amuse him.
Careful, careful,
her inner self warned. But she didn’t want to be careful. The icewine was superb, tart and full of fruit. She took a second swallow then put the glass on the dining table. “Have a seat. I’ll dish up.”

It felt odd, sitting opposite him at the table she usually shared with no one. Circumspectly, from beneath her lowered lashes, she watched him eat. Even that had changed about him. So much polish he’d acquired. He wore his expensive clothing now as though it was just another part of him, like his hair. Once, she vividly remembered, he’d walked around inside velvet and brocade as though at any moment he expected them to bite him. He’d never seemed to her precisely young, just rough … but not any more. Grave responsibilities had aged him. Seasoned him, like green timber long soaked in sunshine and rainstorms. She didn’t know whether to be pleased, or to feel sorry for the fisherman stranded so long on dry land.

Upon closer examination, sorrow won. The Glospottle crisis had intensified the strain she’d sensed in him yesterday evening, not replaced it. Whatever had bothered him then continued to bother him now. He was being gnawed by a secret; the pain of it was in his eyes, his voice, his stubbled face.

She dabbed her lips with her napkin. “And how is our new king? He’s not been seen in public since his coronation. You must know people are starting to wonder.”

Asher tipped the last of his wine into his mouth. “He’s fine.”    ,

“Are you sure?”

He shrugged, an irritated twitch like a horse dislodging flies. “You think I’m lying?”

“I think you’re withholding the truth, which is lying’s kissing cousin.”

“Damn
it, Dathne!” Shoving his chair back, he let his knife and fork clatter to the plate and went to her curtained window. Twitched the faded coverings open and stared into the street. “I told you last night, it’s complicated. Stop bein’ such a … a … slumskumbledy wench!”

“I do know what that means,” she said primly. “Matt told me.”