The Awakened Mage (36 page)

The maids, the messengers and the extra clerks Darran had requested from the palace broke into enthusiastic applause. Willer just smiled a strange, frozen little smile and fluttered his fingers, which could have meant anything. Miserable little sea slug. For herself, Dathne clapped until her palms were stinging.

“All right, all right,” said Asher. “Ain’t you lot got work to do?” Pretending to be cross with them, but inwardly tickled pink. If he was hurt by the conspicuous absence of the stable lads he didn’t show it. They weren’t speaking to him, on account of Matt.

Briefly, sharply, she felt a pang of guilt. If only she hadn’t lost her temper. If only Matt hadn’t lost his. If Asher had stayed out on his ride, instead of returning unexpectedly and catching them in conflict.

She hadn’t told Veira yet. Couldn’t,bring herself to expose her lack of judgment.

I am the Heir. I should’ve known better.

But it was done now, and too late for undoing. Matt hadn’t left for the Dingles yet, she knew that much. His letters of recommendation were still with Darran, uncollected. She’d give it another day and then go see him. Mend their broken fences. Convince him to stay longer while she eased Asher back to the idea of him being here. He couldn’t really believe Matt was in love with her. The idea was ridiculous. He’d see that himself, once cooled completely of temper. He had to.

And Prophecy would continue unhindered, taking its own sweet time as usual.

As the staff departed, chattering, Darran said, “The coach is waiting out front for you. Willer and I will see you in the Hall.”

Asher stared. “I don’t need you there.”

“Nevertheless.” Darran smiled. “We are attending.”

“Fine,” said Asher. “But don’t think I’ll sit still for a review after.” He looked at Dathne then and held out his hand. “Coming?”

She wasn’t expecting that. “Me?”

“To go over the last-minute details.” His voice and face were proper and polite, but his eyes promised wickedness. Her blood became honey, warm and voluptuous.

Ignoring Willer’s jealous glower and Darran’s avuncular simper, she pretended to boredom. Waved away Asher’s outstretched hand. “Very well. If you insist.” And marched off without him towards the foyer doors.

He followed, laughing.

As the carriage rolled down the driveway, Asher drew the curtains tight closed and stole her breath in a kiss. She let him thieve from her again, just once, then pulled away and wrenched the curtains open. The carriage had just turned out of the main palace gates and was heading down the long slow street to the City center.

“Oy!” he protested.

“There’ll be time for dalliance later,” she said severely. “For now, you look outside this carriage then tell me the curtains should stay shut!”

“Sink me bloody sideways,” said Asher, awestruck, and stared at the passing pavements. “What d’they think they’re
doin’!
”

It seemed there wasn’t an Olken man, woman or child in the City not crammed on the pavements to see him go by. They were shouting. Waving. All the young girls brandished flowers. Reaching across him she slid down the window and the crowd’s excitement poured into the carriage like a waterfall.
“Asher! Asher! Asher! “

“Don’t just sit there,” she scolded, laughing. “Wave to them. They’re your people, they’re proud of you. For the first time since the coming of the Doranen we have one of our own at the pinnacle of power.”

“Did I say I wanted to be a bloody pinnacle?” said Asher, scowling. “Barl bloody save me!”

She watched him put his face to the window. Heard the roaring crowd roar louder, seeing him. Knew that this was right, felt it in her bones as she’d not felt anything so strongly since that morning—a lifetime ago now—when she’d woken to know that at last he was within her reach. The ties of blood and magic making her Jervale’s Heir rejoiced.

The Olken in the streets scant feet from their carriage, the Olken shouting and laughing and calling his name, they adored Asher for being their Olken Administrator. How much more would they adore him when he was revealed as their Innocent Mage?

Suddenly she no longer cared that she couldn’t see how that would happen. No longer cared that dreams and visions had fallen into slumber. Her desperate need to know had died. It was enough that she was here, beside him, in a royal carriage headed for Justice Hall where he would sit in the seat of the Law Giver and solemnly uphold the law. Enough to know that she had done her part in guiding him to this place, at this time, when the world trembled on the brink of change.

Enough that he was her husband and she his wife.

If Matt had been here he’d be moping. Frowning. Worrying that Prophecy had more to say than just there was an Innocent Mage. He’d be reminding her of danger, too. That Asher was born to face a fearsome darkness. That Prophecy was vague on what, or who, or how, and could be she should think on that.

She was tired of thinking on that. She’d thought on that for years of her life and what had it got her? Sleepless nights and a belly full of dread. A small and shabby apartment above a shop full of books and no one in the bed beside her.

Asher was here. Prophecy’s child. Soon enough he’d confide the last of his secrets to her, because he loved her. Trusted her. It was meant. Prophecy unfolded and they would do its bidding.

Asher took her hand, shaking her free of reverie. “Pellen told me there’d be a ruckus but I didn’t believe him. Now I owe him a beer, the bastard.” He laughed. “There’s even Doranen out there! Come to see
me\
What would my da say, eh, if he could see this?”

Daringly, she raised his fingers to her lips. “He’d say he was proud,” she whispered. “As I am proud.”

The carriage trundled onwards.

I’m so sorry, Your Majesty,” said Pother Nix unhappily. “I’ve seen this happen before, and there is no explanation for it that I or any pother can give. When a man is this grievously injured, logic oft disappears. For reasons known only to itself Durm’s body has given up the fight to live.”

Sitting close beside the bed, Gar chafed Durm’s cold lax fingers; it was like rubbing a bundle of sticks. “And you’re quite sure there’s nothing more you can do to save him?”

“Sir, as I told you last night, I have fed him every herb under the sun, in more combinations than I thought were possible,” said Nix. “And exhausted my supply of healing spells and incantations. Alas, for all his formidable skills, Master Magician Durm’s injuries have proven greater than his ability to survive them.”

Gar rested his gaze on Durm’s sunken, retreating face. On the graceless folds of emptied skin draped across jutting cheekbones, the thinned and shrunken lips, the

pouched, sagging jowls. He’d never been a handsome man, Durm, but there’d been power in his face. A blunt brutality of character. Now there was merely absence. A fast-fading reminder of the man who once had lived there.

“How long does he have, can you say?” Nix spread his hands. “No, sir. He’s in Barl’s keeping.”

“Is he like to wake again, before the end?”

“Perhaps. I cannot say for certain, Your Majesty.”

Gar chewed at his lip. Now matters could become a trifle … difficult. “Nix, I must speak plainly. I’m sore in need of Durm’s counsel before he dies. There’s the question of who he wished to succeed him, and other matters I’m not at liberty to discuss. Is there a way of… encouraging his waking? Some stimulating herb or incantation you can apply, that will rouse him enough to speak?”

Nix’s indrawn breath was loud in the hushed chamber. “Your Majesty! Such interference would violate every—”

“Nix.”
The pother flinched. Gar released Durm’s quiet hand and stood. “I have all solemn respect for your calling, you know that. But I am king of a curious country. One whose balance may be disturbed more easily than any man can know. If these past weeks have taught me anything of kingship it’s that there’s no sacrifice too great it can’t be made. No principle too inviolate it can’t be slain in the service of the greater good. I have learned that there’s theory and then there’s practice, and a king who can’t place pragmatism above all the other virtues is a king unworthy of his crown. I
need to speak with Durm.
Can you make that happen?”

The room was cool, but a bead of sweat trickled down Nix’s cheek. In his face, a terrible struggle. “Your Majesty—I can try. If you can swear to me on the most holy thing you know there is truly no other way.”

‘Then on the stilled hearts of my family, I swear it.”

Nix slumped and a deeply sorrowing sigh escaped him. “There is an herbal paste which should achieve your desired outcome. It will take me a moment to prepare.”

“Go, then,” Gar said, and sat again. “Durm and I will be waiting.”

Nix departed, the chamber door closing softly behind him. Gar recaptured Durm’s fingers with his own and squeezed. “I know you approve,” he said, trying to smile. “All my life you’ve despaired of my softness. My easily bruised emotions. You should be proud now, old friend. Old enemy. For what could be more ruthless than taking a dying man by the heels and dragging him backwards from the brink?”

Only the fractional rise and fall of Durm’s chest betrayed his fragile hold on life. Not by so much as a flicker of his eyelid did he show that he could hear or feel a presence by his side. Gar let go of the dying man’s hand and pressed hard fingertips to his eyes. His head was aching. It always ached, these days. His head … his heart…

Behind him the chamber door opened again. Closed. Nix padded to the bedside, a small mortar in one hand. A stinging smell, sharp like the depths of winter and acrid as smoke, burned the air.

“I dare not use too much of this,” Nix cautioned as he scooped a little of the stimulant onto the tip of a tiny wooden spatula and smeared it into the portal of Durm’s left nostril. “I wish I dared not use it at all.” He flicked a glance over his shoulder; in it Gar saw concern. Anger. The bitterness of necessity.

“You use it at my bidding,” he said, gently. “There is no blame attached to you, Nix.”

“If I. were a knife in your fist, perhaps,” retorted Nix. Now he was smearing more of the blue paste against the mucous membranes of Durm’s lips and gums. “But I’m flesh, not steel, and I have a mind of my own and a conscience I must answer to.” He hesitated. “Don’t burden it with more than is necessary, Your Majesty.”

Gar let his gaze ice over. “Rest assured, Royal Pother, that whatever your burdens they are minuscule compared to mine.”

Rebuked, Nix dropped his gaze to the floor for a moment, then looked up again. “If the stimulant works at all, and I don’t guarantee it will, you’ll see a change in the next few minutes. If he does rouse then for pity’s sake ask your questions quickly, don’t press him further than he seems able to go and spare him as soon as you can.”

“I will,” he said. “Now go. Bolt the door behind you, and seal the chamber against sound.” Seeing the surprise in Nix’s eyes he added, “It’s a question of solemn secrecy and the need to husband my powers for the WeatherWorking. I would not spend them except in that service.”

Nix bowed. “Your Majesty.” With a lingering, potherly look at Durm, he withdrew.

It felt as though centuries passed before Durm showed any response to Nix’s stinking concoction. His shallow breathing deepened. His fingers twitched. His head shifted on the pillow. Heart pounding, Gar leaned forward.

“Durm,” he whispered. “Durm, can you hear me?”

The faintest of moans, little more than a sigh. A gathering frown in the scarred face. A spindle of spittle, oozing from the corner of his lips. Beneath the translucent eyelids, a turgid roll of eye.

“Durm,” he whispered again, more insistently. “Please?”

Now the moaning sigh became a groan, and Durm’s chest rose and fell more vigorously. In his formless face surfaced some echo of the personality housed within his failing body. A grunt. A snuffling snort. Blue mucus oozed and bubbled from his nostril and over his parting lips.

“Durm!”

Durm’s eyelids lifted, barely. His slitted gaze dragged through the air as though burdened by invisible anchors.
“Gar…”

He pulled the armchair closer. Leaned further in till his lips were almost touching Durm’s ear. On the tip of his tongue was the question he’d come here to ask.

Instead he asked something else, because not to ask it was impossible. He’d never have another chance. When Durm died his last hope of recovery, of keeping his kingdom, would die along with him.

“My magic’s failed, Durm. Is there a cure? An answer in your library, or Barl’s? Do you know a way to save me?”

In a gravelled whisper Durm said, “No.”

The word was like a sword thrust in his side. His breath hitched. His eyes burned. “Are you certain?”

“No cure.”

“Then who can I crown instead of Gonroyd? I need a different heir!”

Durm coughed again, his face gathering tight in a monstrous frown. His bed began to tremble gently, echoing the larger tremors now racking his reunited limbs. He opened his mouth and screamed.

“No!” cried Gar, and leapt up to press Durm’s shoulders to the mattress. “Not yet! Hold on, Durm! I need you!”

Another gargling scream.

He captured Durm’s thrashing head between his hands and forced the maddened eyes to meet his own, even as the wasted, frantic body of his father’s best friend struggled and writhed.

“Help me, Durm!
Help me!”

“The diary!” Durm shouted, bucking and twisting beneath his blankets. “Barl’s diary! Your only hope!”

Heart pounding, he leaned closer still, willing the dying man to hear him. “Barl left a
diary!
When? Where? Do you have it?
Durm!”

A terrible convulsion shook the Master Magician. Blue froth bubbled between his lips and his eyes rolled back in his head. Panting, Gar pulled juddering Durm into a desperate embrace.

“Did you tell my father about it? Did you give it to him?”

A terrible sound, then. Durm was laughing. Wasting the last of his life. “He doesn’t know… I hid it…”