The Awakened Mage (28 page)

His father didn’t answer, which might have meant any number of things.

At length, chilled and hungry and empty of answers, he returned to the Tower where, mercifully, people left him alone. After a half-hearted meal he crawled into bed, fell asleep … and dreamed of Fane, laughing. Of a scarlet sky bleeding red rain. Of the Wall’s demise.

Try as he might, he couldn’t wake.

Pother Nix sat in an easy chair, rereading his notes on the applied uses of lorrel seeds. A peculiar piece of flora, lorrel, good for gangrene and bloody flux. Found only along Lur’s savage east coast, where it clung precariously to life along the barren cliff tops; just one of many unique Olken plants. Without magic, their healers relied on natural remedies and for that he was profoundly grateful. Like it or not, and most Doranen abhorred it, magic could only do so much. Olken herb lore had saved many a Doranen life, and praise Barl for it.

In the bed beside him, wasted and wan, Durm shifted, sighing. Nix glanced up, anxious, but it was dreaming only. No new fit or seizure. He released a grateful breath.

Praise Barl for herb lore indeed. He thought it was the only thing keeping Durm alive, for his healing magics had long since reached their limits. Durm stirred and sighed again, bald head rolling on the pillow. Nix reached out an absentminded hand, intending to check his patient’s pulse—

Durm’s fingers curled around his own.

“Barl save me!” cried Nix, and leapt to his feet. Durm’s eyes were open. Unfocused, but open. “Kerril! Kerril, to me!”

The chamber door flew open and Kerril practically fell into the room. “Sir? Are you—”

“He’s awake! Barl be blessed, he’s awake! Fetch me a wet cloth, quickly!”

As Kerril fled, Nix sought the pulse point in Durm’s throat. It thrummed beneath his fingertips, fast but strong.

“Mmneeugh,” said Durm, struggling to speak. “Hwheee…”

“Hush, hush,” he soothed. “You’re safe, man. Lie still.”

Despite their best endeavors, Durm’s lips were dry and chapped with flaking skin. When Kerril returned, followed by the inevitable gaggle of colleagues, Nix took the cloth she handed him and pressed its wetness to the Master Magician’s mouth.

At its touch Durm’s gaze sharpened. Breathing harshly, he tried to sit up. Nix restrained him. “No! Durm, no! You must stay still!”

Durm frowned, tugging his scars into tangled new shapes, and his lips framed soundless words. He stared around the healing chamber, searching for something, or someone. “Borne,” he gasped, his voice harsh, guttural. “Borne!” Tears leaked from his bloodshot eyes.

“Somebody fetch the king,” said Nix.

As Kerril bolted, scattering pothers like so many skittle-pins, Durm spoke again. “Nix? Nix, help me!”

“I’m trying,” Nix told him, and felt tears of joy, of shock, pricking his own eyes. “But you must lie
still.”

Durm shuddered, a mighty convulsion that lifted his shoulders from the mattress. His eyes opened wide, and his mouth, and the most extraordinary expression of triumph and ecstasy and virulent relief washed over his face.

“Awake!”
he roared. “At last, at last,
awake!”

“
Yes, awake, but poorly yet!” said Nix. “You must—”

“Let me up,” Durm demanded, and struggled to throw aside his blankets. “I have wasted too much time here, I have spent more of myself than I can spare, healing this rotten carcass. Let me
up,
I say! Or be blighted where you—”

Heedless of newly knitted flesh and bone, Nix threw himself across Durm’s chest. “Fetch me ebonard!
Now!”

As someone scuttled to do his bidding, he spread his right hand flat and pressed it against Durm’s thundering heart.
“Quantiasat! Boladuset!”
It was a calming invocation, useful when a patient was conscious but agitated.
“Boladuset,
Durm, Barl curse you with hives! Be
still!”

The invocation caught, and Durm flopped back against his pillows. Somebody thrust a vial of ebonard into Nix’s hand; he tossed the contents into Durm’s gaping mouth and slammed closed his jaw for good measure.

Durm swallowed. Gagged. Snorted. His staring eyes rolled, fogged, and a foolish smile melted over his face. Nix sagged, then turned to scowl at his goggling underlings.

“Be off with you! His Majesty will arrive soon.” But it wasn’t the king who answered his summons. “What’s amiss?” demanded Asher, striding into the sick man’s chamber as though he owned it. Nix, staring, remembered the rough-spun young Olken he’d once treated for a split eyebrow and thought he’d not have achieved a more perfect transformation with magic.

He stood. “I requested His Majesty’s presence.”

“His Majesty ain’t available. Why do you need him?”

In the bed between them, momentarily forgotten, Durm shifted and sighed and said, “Borne…”

“He’s
awake?’
said Asher, incredulous.

Nix smiled. “Awake, and seemingly with all his faculties.”

Still staring at the recovered Master Magician, Asher said, “I’ll fetch the king,” and left as abruptly as he’d arrived. Nearly half an hour later he returned, this time accompanied by His Majesty.

Gar looked worn to the nub and ripe for dropping. Not surprising, perhaps, since he’d interred his family only yesterday. Still…

Nix bowed. “Your Majesty.”

Gar barely acknowledged him. Pushed straight past and dropped into the chair beside Durm’s bed. Snatched up Durm’s fleshless hand and pressed it to his lips.

“Durm. Durm, I’m here.” When Durm didn’t respond, Gar looked up, displeasure unhidden. “What is this? You said he was
awake!”

Nix exchanged a glance with Asher and cleared his throat “He became agitated, sir. I was forced to gentle him with ebonard. He’ll stir again presently, I’m sure.”

Unmollified, Gar turned back to Durm. “You had no business drugging him, Nix. You
know
I need him alert and—”

In the bed, Durm sighed. Stirred. Dragged his eyelids open. “What… what..

Breathing hard, Gar leaned close. “Praise Barl. Durm, can you hear me? Do you know me?”

Durm smiled into Gar’s anxious, waiting face. “Of course,” he said. His voice was soft and slurring. “You’re crippled Gar, Borne’s runting regrettable offspring ”

Nix stepped forward. “Ebonard is a powerful soporific, sir, and oft tickles the tongue to unfortunate utterances. It would be unwise to—”

Gar’s face was bleached of blood. “You think I’d hold a sick man’s words against him?”

Another exchange of glances with Asher. This time the king’s friend frowned and shook his head. Nix abandoned remonstrance. “Of course not, Your Majesty.”

Durm stirred again, querulous now. “Borne? Where is Borne?”

Subdued, Gar leaned close. “He can’t be here at the moment. But he sends you his love.”

Durm smiled. “Borne. My friend. Give my love to him. Tell him I shall see him soon.” He sighed and slid again into sleep.

Gar released Durm’s hand, stood and moved to the window. “He has no memory of the accident?”

“It’s too soon to say for certain,” replied Nix. “But given his injuries … likely not. Once he’s strong enough I’ll—”

“No. I will tell him.”

“As Your Majesty desires.”

“How soon before he can return to his duties?”

Nix hesitated. Everything about this grieving young man urged caution. “Sir… it’s a miracle Durm lives at all. Perhaps it’s not wise for us to look too far into the future.”

Gar glanced over his shoulder, a cold look. “You know I need him, Nix.”

Caution was all very well, but he’d not be bullied into harming a patient Not even by a king. “I know that whatever your needs may be, Your Majesty, Durm’s will always come first”

“The king knows that,” said Asher. His tone was conversational, his eyes sharp. “Just do your best, eh, to bring Durm about as fast as possible. That’s all we’re askin’.”

We.

Nix felt the faintest stirring of unease. “Your Majesty?”

Gar turned. “That’s right. Of course you must protect his health. Protect, but not coddle. I’m asking for him as much as myself, Nix. Durm is not an idle man. He’ll heal faster knowing there’s work to be done. Knowing he’s needed.”

It was a fair observation. Still, Nix felt unsettled. Some new stress was carved into Gar’s face. Something apart from WeatherWorking. ‘To be sure. And how does Your Majesty? You seem to me a trifle … peaked.”

“I’m fine.”

To satisfy himself, Nix reached for Gar’s wrist and laid a palm to his forehead. The king suffered his swift, impersonal touches with a thinly veiled impatience. When he was done, and grudgingly satisfied, Nix retreated. “You should rest more. I warned you, these first weeks of WeatherWorking will break you if you let them.”

“I’m fine, I told you,” Gar snapped. “Save your energies for Durm.”

He risked a smile. T have enough energy for both of you, sir.”

Gar stepped forward, furious. “You think this
amusing!”

“Majesty, no. I—”

“Heal him,
Nix! Or I’ll not be answerable for the consequences!”

Shaken, Nix watched him leave. Frowned, affronted, as Asher, on the king’s heels, gave him a look of filthy disgust.

In his bed Durm slept on, smiling like a babe.

Conroyd Jarralt was in his bath when the message arrived.
Durm has woken and is in his right mind.
Sp great were his rage and disappointment that the cooling water began to bubble with heat and he had to leap out naked before he scalded himself.

“Tell Frawley to wait in the library,” he told the flustered maidservant. “I’ll see him directly.”

“Sir!” she gasped, and fled.

He wrapped himself in a rich brocade robe, dried and ordered his hair with an impatient finger-snap, then descended the stairs to meet with his henchman.

“My lord,” said Frawley, bowing low. Wrapped in his customary gray cloak, hat pulled low to his forehead, he looked, as ever, usefully nondescript.

“Our fat friend sent you a note, 1 take it?”

Frawley shook his head. “No, sir. He tracked me down to the Whistling Pig and accosted me in the privy.”

“Were you observed?”

Frawley looked hurt. “My lord.”

He couldn’t care less about Frawley’s feelings. “Is that all he said?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Jarralt sat at his desk and drummed his fingers. “Willer is laggardly in his task.”

“I did mention you were eagerly awaiting good news, my lord,” said Frawley. Uneasy now, he pulled off his hat and let his fingers nibble at the brim. “I made a point of telling him.”.

“I think it’s time he was reminded of his mission’s urgency,” said Jarralt. “Where is he now?”

“His lodgings, most like, sir, this time of night.”

“Find him. Escort him to the west gate of the City Barlsgarden. I will meet you there.”

“My lord,” said Frawley, and took his leave.

Ethienne was amusing herself at her spinet in the music room. “I’m going for a walk,” Jarralt told her.

“A walk?” she said, astonished. Mercifully she stopped playing and stared at him as though he’d sprouted wings. “At this hour? But you’ve just had your bath.”

“Please don’t distress yourself in staying up till I return. I feel a trifle restless this evening. I might well walk for some time.”

She stretched out a hand to him. “Oh, Conroyd. Are you still so very sad?”

“We live in sad times, my dear.” For many reasons, and one more just added to the list.

“But you got over loving Dana years ago,” she said, pouting just a little. “And you never had a fondness for Borne. Not as a man, I mean. As our king, of course, you revered him, as did we all.”

She’d have to know, sooner or later. “Durm has woken. I just received word.”

And now his second-best wife understood. “Oh,
Conroyd!”

“Yes,” he said softly, and indulged in the thinnest of smiles.

Ethienne rallied. “We cannot despair,” she announced, rising from her music stool. “Awake is one thing. Unimpaired and able to function as the Master Magician is quite another. My dear, do not abandon hope. You will be Master Magician one day, I know it.”

She had no idea of his true ambition, of course. He would never dream of confiding in a woman like her. She was challenged enough to keep her mouth shut on his supposed desire to take Durm’s inferior place at Gar’s side.

He shrugged. “Whatever happens, it will be according to Barl’s will.”

Flushing, she fingered the holy medal on its chain around her neck. “Of course.”

“Pray continue with your music-making, my dear,” he added, nodding at the spinet. “And I shall see you in the morning at breakfast.”

He escaped her enthusiastic butchery of a popular dance tune and exchanged brocade robe^-^and slippers for sober-hued tunic, trousers and boots. Muffled in a black cloak, with a low-brimmed hat to encourage concealing shadows, he left his townhouse and made his brisk way out of the exclusive Old Dorana residential district and towards the City Barlsgarden.

The night was clear, with no rain set to fall. According to the current Weather Schedule—Borne’s last—there’d be no rain in the City for another five days. The temperature was due to start dropping, though. Gar would need to take care of that soon, or the River Gant wouldn’t freeze over and there’d be no skating parties. He’d not stay popular long if that annual delight was unforthcoming. The idea made him smile.

Amusement faded swiftly, however. His window of opportunity was fast sliding shut. Ethienne’s optimism was little short of wishful thinking. If Durm had survived this far it would be just bis luck for the man to make a full recovery. And if that happened any hope of discrediting Gar would disappear. Durm would safeguard his dead friend’s son to the death. Even to the extent of protecting that miserable Asher.

No. If he was going to strike … seize the throne … seize his destiny, it would have to be soon.

He passed a pair of patrolling City Guards. They stared hard, recognized him, and nodded their heads politely as they continued on their way. He ignored them.