The Awakened Mage (35 page)

As do I, child, and all our precious Circle. So you must come to me and together we’ll wait for Prophecy’s wheel to turn again. Don’t despair, Matt. Jervale will not abandon us now.

Relief was so great it was almost like pain. He wasn’t alone. He had somewhere to go. A job still to do. “All right, Veira,” he said. “I’ll make arrangements and leave at first light.”

On a cherry blossom day in the Royal Gardens, Gar chases his giggling sister between and around the cultivated pansy beds, the rows of quiet peters, brilliantly blue, the sapling trunks of youthful flowering pim-pim trees. He chases, but not too closely. Her baby legs are chubby, her unshod baby feet stomp the grass with delight, but unsurely. In the radiant sunshine her hair is a crown of gold thistledown, suggesting another crown yet to come.

“Can’t catch me, Gar! Can’t catch me!”

He’s not even trying, but she doesn’t know that. He pretends to be winded and pants at her, “You’re too fast for me, Fane!”

Somewhere close by, just out of sight, their parents are watching. He knows they worry about him. Worry he might not love his little sister for having in abundance the magic he was born without. They needn’t, but he can’t tell them that. They think he doesn’t know why shadows lurk behind their smiles.

They’re his parents, Lur’s king and queen, but still, they are mistaken. He knows.

Up ahead, his sister stumbles. Her baby legs buckle and she tumbles headlong to the ground. Grass stains smear her pretty pink frock, her petal-soft skin. There is a moment of shocked silence and then she begins to cry.

He swoops. Gathers her up in his big strong nine-year-old arms. Cuddles her to his green and bronze weskit, brand new, a present from Mama. For why? Just because.

Because he is different.. . less… and not supposed to know it, or feel less loved.

Fane sobs against his chest in rage as much as fright. Her rosebud hands make small knobby fists and she beats them against the air. She’s a feisty one, his little sister. She ‘11 have the world her way or not at all. Two years of age just gone, she is, and everyone who knows her knows that.

“It’s all right, Faney, please don’t cry,” he begs her, rocking and jigging to lull her to laughter. “I’m here. I’ve got you. You don’t have to cry.”

She hiccups. Swallows furious grief. Tips back her small head, looks into his face and smiles… and smiles. . . and smiles . ..

“Fane,” said Gar, and opened his eyes. His face was wet with tears.

Behind his bedchamber’s heavy velvet curtains, a glow of mid-morning sun. A new day, beset with old problems.

Durm again was deeply stuporous.

Telling him yesterday evening, Nix had been nearly incoherent with despair and disbelief. He couldn’t understand it. The Master Magician had been fine all morning. Had accepted, grudgingly, the need for more rest in the afternoon. Had swallowed his medicine and gone straight to sleep. Not even Lord Jarralt’s brief visit had disturbed him. Everything about him appeared as it should … And yet he would not wake.

Most like would never wake now. It was time to accept the unacceptable: Lur’s Master Magician would not recover.

Nix blamed himself, of course, but it wasn’t anyone’s fault. People died, whether you wanted them to or not.

Swaddled in a cocoon of blankets, Gar brooded at the pale green ceiling. If he could swallow that bitter pill he could swallow another one, too. Had to swallow it, because that’s what kings did. They faced unpalatable truths.

His charade as WeatherWorker was over.

With Durm mere days—maybe hours—away from dying, he had nowhere left to turn. Conroyd would now demand he be made Master Magician and with no reasonable way of denying the appointment the truth of his magical lihghting would come out. There was no way he could hide it any longer.

He’d gambled, and he’d lost.

Duty demanded he go to Conroyd this very morning, admit his magic had deserted him, and offer the man his crown. His kingdom. To do otherwise would not only be a betrayal of his sacred oath, it would put Asher in danger of discovery.

And that was out of the question.

Making Conroyd king. The merest thought of it was enough to close his throat, stifle his lungs, make him sweat and sweat. Everything within him resisted, strenuously, the idea of making Conroyd king.

Groaning, he rolled out of bed. Relieved himself—it reminded him of Indigo Glospottle, and coaxed a fleeting smile—scraped overnight stubble from his chin and cheeks, fumbled his hair into a rough-and-ready plait then found clothes to cover his nakedness. His belly rumbled but the thought of food made him nauseous. He sat in an armchair and returned to his brooding.

What would his father do, faced with this dilemma?

The answer came swiftly.
Fight.

Borne would fight this, as he’d fought when his son’s lack of magic could no longer stay a secret. The law was clear on the question of royal children.
One
heir to the throne. But Borne had known then what his son knew now: that to meekly submit to the law meant the ascension of House Jarralt and the fall of his own. Meant surrendering the care of the kingdom and its peoples to a man half convinced that Olken weren’t people at all. Just slightly intelligent cattle. They weren’t. And to treat them so would lead to civil war.

So Borne sidestepped the law. Fought with his councils, both Privy and General, until they saw things his way and gave him an heir, not an error.

Yes. Faced once more with the prospect of Conroyd as king, Borne would do anything, everything, to thwart the lord’s burning ambition. But what?
What?
What could Borne’s son do that might deny Conroyd the crown?

Shining in the darkness, a glimmering, ghostly idea.

Perhaps … risk a schism?

Chewing on a thumbnail Gar let his thoughts race along unfamiliar paths. He’d always assumed that, as the acknowledged, superior magician, Conroyd must be named king. And that to widen the field of candidates for the crown would be to invite disaster. His father had believed so. And he trusted his father’s instincts implicitly. Accepted his conclusions without question.

But Conroyd had two sons. Give him the crown and he would have to choose his heir. Elevate one … disappoint the other. Be it now or later, schism was again the likely outcome.

Could there be another choice for WeatherWorker? Someone other than Conroyd? Was there in his kingdom a Doranen of another house fit to wear the crown? A magician of sufficient power to wield and control the tormenting Weather Magic? Who might… just might… share Borne’s affection and respect for the Olken and so preserve amity between the races?

He had no idea. Only Durm would know. As Master Magician he knew intimately the strengths and weaknesses both magical and personal of every Doranen living in Lur. It was from them he would appoint his own successor. It was his duty to know.

A pity he’d not also thought it his duty to record his conclusions for posterity in writing, so someone else might read them and use the information to avert disaster.

If he could find someone other than Conroyd … assure himself beyond all doubt that he or she was fit to rule … he could sidestep Conroyd altogether. Crown this unknown Doranen in private and present Privy Councilor Lord Jarralt with a king or queen he couldn’t replace.

“I think I have it, Father,” he said to his empty bedroom. “A solution that answers all dilemmas … and shows, perhaps, that I’m still your son.”

It meant he’d have to see his Master Magician today. Bully Nix into rousing the dying man long enough to get some idea of where to find this Doranen paragon, this uncrowned monarch of Lur. Because one thing at least was certain. The longer he delayed taking action, the more likely it was that Durm would die unconsulted.

And that would be . .. unfortunate.

Fired with a desperate enthusiasm, but still mindful of what else was happening today, Gar went downstairs to find his Olken Administrator.

Asher was in his apartments, vomiting.

“I don’t know why you’re letting yourself become so overwrought,” Gar told him, watching as he blotted his pale sweaty face with a towel. “You’ve been in Justice Hall a score of times. And it’s not as if Glospottle’s case is a matter of life and death. It’s
piss,
for Barl’s sake. The dispute never should’ve gone this far in the first place!”

Asher straightened, glaring. “You sayin’ this is
my
fault?”

Gar raised a placating hand. “No. You handled the matter as well as anyone could have. Glospottle’s a stubborn fool and the guild is just plain greedy. This was always going to end up in Justice Hall.”

Pausing in the middle of changing shirts from green silk to blue, Asher snorted. “Wish you’d said so sooner. I’d’ve chucked it all in and gone back to Restharven.”

“Why do you think I didn’t?”

That earned him a sharp look. “What’s amiss now?”

He didn’t want to say too much in case his idea came to nothing. “I’ve had a thought. About how to extricate ourselves from the mess we’re in without risking discovery.”

“Aye? And?”

“I’ll tell you later… if it works out. If it doesn’t, I don’t want to look foolish.”

Asher’s lips twitched. “Bit late for that, I reckon.” In all his life, nobody ever spoke to. him like Asher.

Like he was just another man. An equal. A worthy target for easy teasing. It made all the darkness … bearable.

He cleared his throat. “I received a note from Conroyd last night. Requesting an urgent meeting with himself and Holze in their capacity as Privy Councilors.”

Asher finished pulling on boots buffed to an eye-searing shine. “Privy Council meeting? I weren’t invited.”

Gar smiled wryly. “I noticed. Which is why I’m yet to respond. I don’t know for certain what they’re after but I think I can guess. I’m going to ignore them for as long as I can.”

“Ignore them forever!” said Asher, indignant. “Who’s the bloody king around here, eh?”

“Yes… well… that’s the thorny question, isn’t it?” Gar allowed himself a brief and bitter smile, then changed the subject. “I’m sorry I can’t be with you at the hearing today. I’m sorry I wasn’t more use in helping you prepare.”

“Don’t fratch it,” said Asher, shrugging into an opulent gold and peacock weskit. “You had more important things to think on, and I had help enough. Besides, Dathne weren’t about to let me set foot in Justice Hall without I was stuffed full to indigestion with folderol and jurisprudery.”

He saw the way Asher’s eyes warmed at the mention of her name, and took refuge in a little gentle teasing of his own. “When are you going to do something about that woman? Declare your intentions? Sweep her off her feet? It’s clear to anyone with half an eye you’re as mad as maggots about her.”

Asher flushed. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he muttered, and dragged his best dark blue velvet coat off its hanger. “I got to get goin’. Bloody Darran’s insis-tin’ I ride in a coach all the way to Justice Hall. Silly ole crow.”

‘That was my idea,” Gar confessed, and laughed out loud at the look on Asher’s face. For a moment, just a moment, the ache in his chest eased a little. “It’s an historic day, Asher. An Olken, Law Giver in Justice Hall. I wish we could celebrate it the way you deserve.”

“Ha!” said Asher, rolling his eyes. “I’m bloody glad we can’t. There’s been enough botheration already.”

Gar shook his head. Struggled for words that wouldn’t sound maudlin but reflected how he felt. “I owe you so much. I doubt there’s another man living who’d have done what you’ve done. Risked what you’ve risked just because I asked it. I want you to know it’s appreciated. And one day—I don’t know when or how—I’ll back up my words with deeds.”

He held out his hand. Asher stared at it, his expression a muddle of exasperated pleasure. Such a rough-mannered man, his fisherman friend. Brusque and bullish, impatient of so much, and so many. But with a heart as strong and as grand as his beloved ocean, and possessed of a courage as unbreakable as Barl’s blessed Wall itself.

“Get away with you,” said Asher and, to Gar’s surprise brushed his hand aside to clasp him in a brief and rib-bending embrace. “Stop wastin’ my time, eh? You want history to show I was late to my first big performance at Justice bloody Hall?”

Gar stepped back. “Of course not. Go. Good luck. You can give me a blow-by-blow account over a cold ale before dinner.”

Heading for the door, Asher grinned over his shoulder. “Provided you’re payin’.”

“Just do me a favor. Make sure the blows aren’t literal?” he added. “And Asher?”

Asher whirled.
“What?”

“There’s a Working tonight. Remember?”

All the warm amusement fled Asher’s face. Stilled, chilled, he nodded. “You think I could forget?”

And then he was gone.

Abruptly sobered, harshly reminded of everything he most wanted to wipe clean from recollection, Gar returned to his apartments to prepare for his meeting with Durm.

Asher looked so resplendent in his Justice Hall finery it was all Dathne could do to stop herself from throwing her arms around him in front of all the Tower staff, shouting for everyone to hear: “He’s mine, he’s mine, all mine!”

Instead she allowed herself to meet his questing eyes with a single, burning look, and laughed to see it kindle fire in his face.

“Let me see now, let me see,” fussed Darran, bustling to meet him at the bottom of the Tower’s spiral staircase. “Olken Administrator or not, Law Giver or not, I won’t let you set one foot outside if you’re a disgrace to His Majesty.”

To Dathne’s surprise Asher bore the old man’s wittering with unpolished good grace. Let him tweak at his weskit, smooth down his sleeves, repin the diamond at the center of one expensive lapel. With half a smile and exaggerated patience he looked down his nose at Darran and asked him, drawling, “Well?”

Darran sniffed. Stepped back, thin hands folded across his black silk middle. “You’re as gaudy as a popinjay, but I suppose you’ll do.”