The Awakened Mage (33 page)

“Only if he makes a full recovery,” said Gar. “And if Conroyd is content for him to stay Master Magician.”

“That ain’t his decision, is it?”

“Technically, no,” said Gar, pulling a face. “But in truth I’d not put it past Conroyd to push Durm from power. He knows too well Durm’s opinion of him. And that Durm’s loyalty will always be first and foremost to House Torvig.”

“Durm knows that, though. He won’t let Jarralt shuffle him off without a fight. And Jarralt won’t raise a public ruckus over it—he’d lose support in a heartbeat.”

Gar’s expression was mulish. “I don’t care. This is all speculation, Asher. So long as Durm doesn’t know what’s happened I still have a chance to find a cure on my own and remain king. The second we make my infirmity known, it’s over. Now you promised me a month. Do you keep that promise, or walk away from it?”

Bastard.
He’d never gone back on a promise in his life, and Gar knew it “All right” he said, not caring how surly he ¥ sounded. “But here’s fair warning. One month and not a day or even an hour longer. That’s our agreement and that’s what I’ll hold you to. Even if you drop to your knees and beg.”

“I won’t” said Gar, unsmiling. “I have my honor, as you have yours. My word is my word and won’t be broken. Do you doubt it?”

“No. Just want my position understood, is all.”

Gar nodded. “It’s understood. Now leave me so I can get back to these wretched books. If you want to be useful, go see Durm in my stead. Give him my regards. Find out from Nix how his recovery proceeds.”

Asher stood. Drifted towards the door, eager to be gone. “And if Durm asks when he’ll see you?”

“Soon,” said Gar. Picking up his pen, he returned his attention to his parchments. ‘Tell him he’ll see me soon. And, Asher?”

Hand on the door latch, he turned. “Aye?”

‘Tell Nix to break the news about my family.”

“Right” he said, after a moment. And closed the door gently behind him.

Morg glared at the gormless young pother attempting to foist upon him yet another dose of herbal muck. “Unless you desire ears like a rabbit I suggest you go away!”

The nitwit blanched. “I’m sorry, sir, it’s Pother Nix’s orders.”

“Then fetch me Pother Nix so I might rescind his ridiculous orders!”

“Sir,” the nitwit said faintly, and scuttled away.

Groaning, Morg lay back upon his raft of pillows. Damn this broken body. With Durm at last defeated, safely silenced and caged once more, he’d thought his mastery complete.

But no. Chained to the vagaries of a corporeal existence, he found himself still weak. Still hostage. Twice this morning he’d tried to rise and twice Durm’s mangled remains had defeated him. The situation was intolerable. There had to be another way …

The chamber door opened, admitting Nix. He looked displeased. “Durm, I must insist you don’t frighten my staff. They are merely acting upon my instructions. Do you wish to make a full recovery or don’t you?”

Morg bared his teeth. He had no time for a full recovery. This body was old and weakened, first with excess, now with injury. And he had lingered in this place for far too long.

In the doorway behind the pother, unnoticed, lurked crippled Gar’s pet Olken. He pointed. “What is he doing here?”

Nix turned. Saw the upstart and raged. T told you to wait outside, Asher! The Master Magician is not ready for vis—”

“Sorry, but I got orders from the king,” the upstart said stubbornly. “A message.”

Because Durm was not supposed to know of Borne’s death, Morg struggled against his pillows and let his voice tremble. “From Borne? I don’t understand. Why does he not deliver his message in person?”

As Nix glared, murderous, the Olken stepped forward. “It’s all right, Nix. Gar said to tell him.”

Morg let his voice grow faint. ‘Tell me? Tell me what?”

Rage relinquished, the pother sighed and folded his hands. “I’m sorry, Durm. We kept the news from you for fear it would be too much to bear. Borne is dead. The queen, too, and Princess Fane.”

“Dead?” Morg whispered, and let Dunn’s grief well into his eyes. Dribble down his cheeks. “No… no… may Barl have mercy …”

“Gar is our king now,” Nix murmured. “The Wall stands strong in his stewardship.”

Yes, but
why?
Morg raged behind his mask of tears.
How,
when his magic should have died long since? “Poor boy. To be orphaned and crowned in such swift, unkind succession,” he said brokenly. “I must see him. I beg you, Nix, send for him at once. I will not rest until I can—”

“I’m sorry, sir,” said the upstart Olken. “I’m here to give you His Majesty’s regards and say he will come, soon.”

“But not now?” Morg dashed Durm’s tears from his cheeks and let himself sag, frail and pathetic, against his pillows. “Why not now? Is something wrong? Is the WeatherWorking too hard for him? Does his magic not hold?”

The Olken stiffened. Watching closely, Morg saw something flicker in his eyes. And knew that whatever words next fell from his lips would be a lie.

“Why would you wonder that, sir? His Majesty’s magic holds strong and true. He’s his father’s son, right enough. He’ll tell you so himself just as soon as he can.”

Nix said sharply, “And if that is your message delivered, Asher, you may leave. The Master Magician has enough to contend with for now.”

Gar’s pet bowed. “Sir.” Bowed again to Durm. “Sir. You got any message for the king? Reckon he’d be heartened by a word or two. No disrespect intended, but he’s been frettin’ for you somethin’ fierce.”

Morg squeezed out another tear. “The dear, dear boy. Tell him this, Asher. I love him, and grieve with him, and promise him this: that together we shall see our kingdom reach its glorious destiny, ordained on the day Barl came over the mountains.”

The Olken exchanged a baffled glance with Nix and bowed again. “Aye, sir. I’ll tell him.”

He departed. Nix too, after more fussing. Ablaze with triumph, Morg allowed himself a raucous, silent crowing.

The cripple was failing. The time at last had come. All he needed now was a way out of Durm’s used-up, useless body … and the victory would be his.

Conroyd Jarralt walked downstairs to the musical strains of Ethienne berating a servant. “I particularly asked for
yellow
roses, you useless girl! Are you colorblind? Or just stupid, like the rest of your Olken friends?”

The servant was on the brink of tears; brimming eyes, flushed cheeks and a trembling lower lip. Ignoring her, he slid an arm around his ranting wife’s shoulders and smoothly swept her with him along the hallway to the foyer and front door. ‘That’s enough, Ethienne. They’re flowers, not a matter of life and death.”

She pouted. “But, Conroyd—”

He tightened his encircling arm, squeezing her to silence. “Like little starlings in their nest, my dear, Olken servants twitter. And with the Olken lout so close to the throne and wielding influence I would prefer he received no fourth-hand reports claiming I permit the mistreatment of his people under my roof. Understood?”

She wriggled and he let her go. Watched as she smoothed her hair with immaculately manicured fingers. Jeweled rings flashed in the afternoon sunshine filtering through their townhouse’s tall windows. Her aging, perfectly made-up face was sulky. “Yes, Conroyd.”

He kissed her scented cheek. Softened his manner, because Ethienne always responded most readily to coaxing. “I have business with Holze. Shall I bring you home some yellow roses?”

She reached up and flattened the folds of his silk cravat. Echoes of the flirting girl he’d married. “Very well. And don’t be late! The Daltries and the Sorvolds are guesting here this evening, remember?”

He did. And with luck he’d have news for them that would add extra spice to the meal. “Of course, my dear,” he said, and kissed her cheek again. ‘Till this evening.”

He closed the front door on her simpering laughter and ensconced himself in his bright blue carriage, the one with his house emblem blazoned proudly on both doors. The horses drawing it were blood bays, caparisoned with equal pride.

This was not a day for stealth. At least, not overtly. Dorana’s mood was elevated, he noted, as the carriage rumbled briskly from his townhouse to the center of the City. The gloom of the past weeks was gone, doubtless washed away by Gar’s proficient WeatherWorking. The Doranen and Olken faces he passed were smiling, carefree. Relieved. Death’s shadow had blotted out the sun, but only for a moment.

He let the carriage curtain fall back to cover the window and rested his head on the cushions behind him. Despite Durm’s inconvenient recovery and Willer’s failure to uncover malfeasance beneath Gar’s roof, still he refused to abandon hope. There was one last weapon in his battle for power that he’d yet to lay his hands upon …

He found Holze in the cleric’s Barl’s Chapel study. It was a small room, unadorned save for the ubiquitous portrait of Barl hanging above a perpetual candle. Warm light flickered across the savior’s grave young face, her golden hair, the long plait that trailed over her left shoulder. The chamber’s atmosphere bordered on the unpleasantly chill.

Holze was reading a religious text and making notes. “Conroyd!” he said, looking up from behind his plain desk as an acolyte ushered his visitor into the room. “Gracious. Am I expecting you? I don’t recall—”

“Efrim,” said Jarralt, deliberately genial. “No. I came in the hope you’d be free and able to spare me some of your valuable time.” He threw a pointed glance at the acolyte. “On matters of state.”

“Of course, of course.” Holze closed his religious text, disposed of his pen and dismissed the acolyte with a smile and a nod. “Have a seat.”

For reasons best kept to himself Holze didn’t believe in comfortable chairs. Jarralt arranged himself in the uncompromising wooden stool-and-back arrangement beside the cleric’s desk and folded tranquil hands in his lap.

“I realize any reservations I express regarding our kingdom’s current circumstances will be seen by some as nothing more than the mouthings of an ambitious, embittered man. But I hope you’ll see them for what they truly are: an honest concern for Lur’s future.”

Advancing age had failed to dull Holze’s wits. His eyes were sharp and his expression astute as he said, “You’re here about Durm. And the king.”

Jarralt nodded. “Yes. And while you and I haven’t always agreed, still I think you know me as a man who loves this kingdom, Efrim, and wants only what is in its best interests.”

“Yes, Conroyd. I do.”

“Please believe me, what I have to say gives me no pleasure. But to stay silent would be a betrayal of everything I hold dear.” He kissed his holyring. “Of Blessed Barl herself.”

Holze sighed. “Go on.”

“I am trying to remember that His Majesty is young and recently bereaved,” Jarralt said, frowning. “And that Durm has devoted his whole life to Lur’s prosperity. But I am deeply worried and have no one else to whom I can, in confidence, turn to for advice.”

“Unburden yourself, Conroyd,” Holze said gently. “Share your misgivings with me and together we’ll find a way to ease your troubled mind.”

Jarralt resisted the urge to resettle himself on the uncomfortable chair, and instead schooled his expression to one of sober, somber confession. “Borne was a great king. We weren’t close, for obvious reasons, but I would never deny his power as a WeatherWorker. Question his domestic decisions, yes. And the way he used his influence, his charisma, to further his dynastic ambitions. That in particular I deplored. But it was done, and ratified, and even I could see that Fane was something out of the ordinary.”

“Gar is hardly mundane either,” Holze pointed out.

“But for all the wrong reasons, Efrim. He was a cripple for most of his life. Magical as a rock. And then, without warning, his power burst upon him and nobody questioned it. Nobody thought it was odd. They were too busy celebrating the miracle.” Hearing his own bitterness, he took a moment to moderate his tone. “And now with Borne dead, Fane dead, he’s our WeatherWorker. Charged with the most sacred magic in the kingdom. And nobody thinks to ask if he’s suitable. Or stable. Nobody has thought to wonder if that capricious magic might leave him as suddenly as it arrived.”

Holze’s fingers stroked the rat-tail Barlbraid on his shoulder. “Durm said his legitimacy as a magician is beyond reproach.”

It was no good. He could tolerate the chair no longer. Pushing to his feet, he paced the small, cool chamber. “Durm was the closest thing Borne had to a brother. Borne loved him uncritically and trusted him without question—feelings that were returned tenfold. I doubt there is nothing Durm wouldn’t do if it meant protecting his dead friend’s dynastic claim to the throne.”

“That… is a serious accusation, Conroyd,” said Holze. He looked and sounded troubled.

“Don’t mistake me, Efrim!” he said, raising one hand. “Durm would never break the law or act against the interests of the kingdom. Not consciously, at least. But I have come to wonder whether his judgment is to be trusted where Borne’s son is concerned. And now . .. with these terrible injuries … the ravages of grief… can we be certain there’s been no permanent damage? Is it safe, or wise, to trust him without question?”

Holze nodded slowly. “I confess, Conroyd … these are matters I have myself been pondering.”

Jarralt smothered unseemly elation. “And there is yet another matter. More disturbing even than Durm’s precarious position. Asher.”

Holze let his gaze settle on Barl’s portrait. “You’ve never much cared for him. Or his people.”

“Perhaps not, but that doesn’t mean my concerns aren’t legitimate. This Olken has the ear of our king, and the power to persuade him towards actions that might not be in our best interests. He’s been made a Privy Councilor! Are you at ease with this? For I’m not!”

“No,” said Holze eventually. Unhappily. “I, too, find Gar’s deepening reliance on Asher… disturbing. Barl gave the Olken into our keeping. They are a simple people, ill-equipped to deal with matters of magic or high government.”

Tasting victory, he crossed to Holze’s side and dropped to one imploring knee. “Then, Efrim, we can stay silent no longer. You are Lur’s most senior cleric. Both of us serve as Privy Councilors. Gar’s fitness as ruler is demonstrably questionable. For the good of the kingdom we
must
act. We owe Borne’s memory nothing less.”