The Awakened Mage (69 page)

Unwillingly, Veira shared her last titbit of gossip. “All the trouble’s being blamed on Asher.”

Asher snorted. “That’s convenient.”

“It’s very clever—and inconvenient. We’ll have to work hard to make sure you’re not noticed once we get into the City.” She sat back in her chair, appetite defeated. “We leave at first tight. I’d be happier going soon after supper but the roads’ll be too treacherous in the dark and we can’t risk glimfire.” She looked at Gar. “You all done with your translating, then?”

Gar put down his knife and fork. His expression was wary. Watchful. She didn’t like the look of it. “Done?” he said. “Yes, I’m done. But the last spell isn’t like the others. It’s not a summoning for war-beasts.”

“Then what is it?” said Dathne.

“A spell that Asher can say only once. A spell I’ll have to teach him myself, on the road to Dorana.”

For the first time, Asher looked at him. “You ain’t comin’ with us. You can teach me it tonight.”

“I’m too tired tonight,” said Gar, flushing. “I’ve been working all day and this is a desperately complicated incantation. Much harder than the others.”

Seated beside him, Veira put her hand on his arm. “Why?”

He took a breath. Let it out. “Because it’s a killing spell. Powerful enough to destroy Morg himself.”

“And you’re only just tellin’ us
now?”
said Asher, glaring.

Gar held his hot gaze steadily. “It was the last spell in the diary. Barl’s final defense against Morg. I had to be sure I translated it properly.”

“And did you?”

“Yes. It will kill him.”

Still Asher stared. “And what else? I know you, Gar, there’s somethin’ you ain’t sayin’. Spit it out.”

“Unfortunately, it will also kill you.” His words sparked a tempest.

“Then he can’t use it!” cried Dathne. “How can you even
think
he would—”

“There’s got to be another way,” said Matt, pushing his plate away. “Prophecy says nothing about—”

“I told you he was try in’ to kill me!” said Asher, indignant.

Veira slammed her hand hard on the table, making them all jump and fall silent.

“Enough!
Nobody’s said he has to use it. Might be we’ll kill this Morg with an army of those monsters Asher conjured up this afternoon. But we can’t afford to ignore any weapon handed us in this war. It’s a kingdom and thousands upon thousands of lives at stake.” She looked at Asher, willing all kind understanding from her face. “But in the end we’re not the ones who’ll be called on to use it, and die. That might be your fate, child. Can you bear it? If all else fails could you use
this
weapon … though it cost you your life?”

Asher shoved back from the table. Rubbed his hands across his face, then let them fall to his side. “Why are you even askin’, ole woman?” His cold gaze raked across all their faces. “You got me to promise to help you, and you know bloody well I keep my promises—no matter what it costs me. Besides. There’s some as might think I’m already dead. That all I am is a man livin’ on stolen time.”

“Do you think that?” said Malt, into the red-hot silence.

Asher shrugged. “Don’t matter what I think. Nowt matters any more, save for stoppin’ that monster in the City.”

“Yes,” Veira said, when no one else could answer him. “No matter what it costs any of us, Morg must be stopped. Now let’s all finish eating, shall we, then get ourselves some sleep. It’ll be a mortal bad trip back to Dorana.”

Returned to the Weather Chamber under cover of darkness, Morg raged and raged round the Weather map till all the polish was worn from the parquetry and the mellow timber shone dim.

The bitch whore’s golden barrier was pockmarked with weaknesses now, its intricate incantations fraying apace. Outside the chamber a shrill wind was howling. Trees lashed the cloud-clotted sky and lightning stabbed both air and sodden ground. The world bled rain.

The map itself was suffering too. Leprous patches of decay and destruction marred it from end to end. His listening mind heard a far-distant keening. He lifted his eyes and stared through the clear crystal ceiling at the writhing gold light above him.

“Yes, slut! Scream.
Scream!
”

An unheralded voice said somewhere behind him: “Conroyd? Your Majesty? Might we have a word?”

Startled, he spun around. Stepped back, incredulous. Furious.
“Sorvold?
You vomitous excrescence, get out! All of you get out! You are not wanted here!”

They’d come in a gaggle, like geese. Sorvold. Daltrie. And uninvited back from the country, Boqur and Hafar also. Conroyd’s dear friends and confidants.

As they stared at him, slack-faced with shock, he laughed his delight. “You lackwits! Don’t you know he
despises
you?”

Foolishly they’d braved the inclement weather. Wet, wind-tossed, plastered with tattered leaves, despite their silks and velvets and their pitiful little magics they looked like destitute vagabonds.

Payne Sorvold said, very slowly, “Your Majesty, are you unwell?”

Victory was vintage icewine, burning in his blood. He spread his hands. “Unwell? On the contrary, gentlemen. I am superb. I said get out.”

They exchanged uneasy glances. Sorvold spoke again. “Your Majesty, we are here on behalf of your Council. Your people. The weather is… disturbing. The Wall itself seems—its appearance suggests—Your Majesty, clearly something is wrong.”

Boqur took a step forward. Neglected to bow. “Conroyd, in plain language: you have refused to meet with us that we might form a proper advisory for you in these early, unquiet days of your reign. Against all precedent and sound precepts of governance you’ve suspended the kingdom’s lawful Council. Anxious messengers pour into the City from districts throughout the kingdom, desperate to know how to proceed in the face of the weather’s wildness. And an hour ago your assistant Willer informed us that our former monarch Prince Gar has vanished without trace.”

He laughed out loud. He hadn’t heard. Didn’t care. “Vanished?
Vanished?
Oh, poor little runtling! Running and running with no place to hide!”

It was Hafar’s turn to remonstrate. “Conroyd, it’s clear you’re unwell. Perhaps the transfer of Weather Magic went awry. You should not have attempted it without a Master Magician to aid you. We did try to warn you, sir.”

“We must be honest, Con!” said bluff Nole Daltrie. “Your kingship’s off to a very bad start! Public executions, missing princes and now this dreadful weather! What are you doing to it? The City’s in an uproar! Captain Orrick can barely maintain order. There’s panic in the streets! Mobs at the palace demanding explanations! And hardly any Doranen are left to help control the population after your stupid wife summoned them to the country. It’s an utter disaster and you’re to blame! Now how are you going to fix it?”

He heaved a thundering sigh. “Oh, Nole, Nole … do rest that treadmill tongue of yours. I have no intention of fixing it. Everything unfolds as I desire.”

“As you
desire,
“[__] said Boqur. “Conroyd! Are you mad then, if not ill? Have you looked outside this chamber? The Wall itself’s in danger!”

He smiled, rejoicing. “The Wall itself is
falling,
fool. And soon you’ll all fall with it.”

“Barl save us,” Daltrie whispered. “I think you have gone mad, Con. Gentlemen, you heard him?”

“Indeed we did,” said Hafar grimly. “We come just in time. His Majesty is unfit.”

Sorvold stepped forward, his expression rigid. “You must accompany us, sir. Immediately. Whatever ails you, Pother Nix shall discover it and with Barl’s blessings put you right again.”

“Pother Nix is a pus-pot. I am as well as I have ever been. Gentlemen, you’re dismissed.”

“No, sir,” said Sorvold, still approaching. “You are desperately ill. You must be, for the Conroyd Jarralt I know and admire would never—”

He stopped the idiot with a tender smile. Reached out and laid his palm, so gently, above the bleating fool’s heart. Leaned close … and showed him his true self.

“But, Payne,” he whispered as Sorvold’s face turned gray and his mouth sagged in horror. “Can’t you tell? I am
not
the Conroyd Jarralt you know and admire …”

A thought, and the laboring heart beneath his hand stopped beating.

“Conroyd!”
the rest of the geese cried out. Daring to criticize, and question. So he slaughtered them like geese. Dropped then bodies where they stood, burned them to ash with an incandescent thought, then forgot they had ever existed.

The storm was worse come cockcrow. Wilder wind. Heavier rain, gusting with hailstones and flurries of sudden snow. The fringe of Black Woods around Veira’s cottage was battered and full of gaps where trees had been torn down through the night. The world looked desolate, beyond all hope. The sound of running water filled the sodden air.

As Veira battled through the deepening mud, freeing her pigs and chickens and the donkey, Asher helped Matt harness the unhappy horses to the wagon. Matt looked even paler this morning; instead of sleeping last night, as Veira had ordered, he’d spent hours cobbling together blanket-lined canvas covers for the animals to protect them from the rain and hail.

Checking buckles, tugging knots, Asher said, “What d’you reckon we’ll find once we get to Dorana?”

Matt shrugged. “I’m trying not to think. Asher—”

He sighed, knowing what Matt was about to say. “Don’t. There ain’t any point. If I got to say Gar’s killing

spell, then so be it. You want to get rid of Morg, don’t you?”

“Of course I do! But not like—”

“Like what? Me dyin’?” he demanded. “You mean to say you never thought it’d come to this? Even though’’ your bloody Prophecy says as much?”

“No!” Matt protested. “I never—at least I hoped—”

“Hope? Since when did hope save lives, Matt? I could stand in the middle of the City Square and hope till my head falls off that Morg’ll drop dead at my feet, but it ain’t goin’ to happen unless I
make
it happen.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“It prob’ly does,” he said. “And you’ve always known it. Don’t go insultin’ my intelligence now, Matt. Not after all we’ve been through.”

Matt stared at him, stricken. “Dathne told me not to be your friend. She always knew how bad things might get.”

Dathne.
He turned away. “You should’ve listened.”

Frowning, Matt eased himself round to check the nearside horse’s tail, tied up to keep it out of the mud. “You should make your peace with her. This silence is killing her, Asher.”

He felt his heart hitch. “That’s my business, Matt.”

“You’re being unfair!”

“You want I should stop talkin’ to you too?” he said, dangerously close to snarling. “Leave it, Matt. I got enough to give me headaches without personal claptrap on top of it!”

The horses tossed their heads and stamped, unsettled by their edgy voices as well as the howling rain. Matt reached out a hand to them and murmured, soothing. Then he nodded, and sighed. “All right, Asher. Whatever you want. It’s just a shame, is all. I’ll say this for the last time then I’ll not say it ever again: she loves you.”

Over his shoulder, walking away, Asher answered, “Don’t you know, Matt? Love’s the bloody least of it.”

They left the cottage soon after that. Matt driving, with Dathne on one side and Veira the other. In the back of the wagon, under the makeshift canvas covering drummed with rain, Asher, Gar and Darran and their baskets of supplies. The old man tucked himself up in a blanket and quickly fell asleep, a bundle of snoring bones.

“I fear it’s been too much for him,” Gar said, fretting. “I should’ve left him behind in the Tower.”

Asher snorted. “You should’ve done a lot of things, I reckon. Bit late now though, eh?”

Gar looked down at the paper in his hands. His face was closed-off. Unreadable. The way it used to be in the early days, when Gar was still “Your Highness” and friendship never thought of. “I hope not.” His fingers smoothed over the paper’s creased surface. “I hope with this I can put everything right.”

“That’s what you call killin’ me, is it? Puttin’ everything right?” He laughed. “It don’t bother you at all, eh?”

Gar’s eyes glinted. “What? That this spell I’ve translated will destroy you? If I said yes, would you believe me?” He let his head fall back against the wagon’s temporary canvas wall. “Of course you wouldn’t. You’ve made your feelings plain, Asher. Let’s not belabor them now.

You’ve agreed to do this, and I’ve agreed to help. Let’s leave it that, shall we?”

Asher pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. Glanced up as, overhead, the sky, invisible, was rumbled through with thunder. “Aye. Let’s.”

“Good,” said Gar tightly. “Now shall we get to work on the incantation? I know we’ve hours to go till we reach Dorana but this isn’t a task for skimping.”

“And how am I meant to practice the bloody thing if sayin’ it’s goin’ to kill me?”

“Credit me at least with some intelligence,” Gar snapped. “I’ve broken it into sections. We’ll work through them one at a time, out of order, and leave the sigils till last. Once you’ve committed each section to memory I’ll show you the proper order they come in. All right?”

Grudgingly, he nodded. “Aye. Fine. All right.”

“Good,” said Gar. “Now pay attention …”

Dathne huddled inside her enveloping blanket and kept her gaze pinned to the horses’ wet, canvas-covered backs. Poor things. They looked so miserable: ears pinned to their heads, snapping peevishly at each other every other stride, bound-up tails lashing. The waterlogged road unrolled before them, bordered each side with battered trees. The wagon’s wheels slipped and slithered and the horses grunted with the effort of hauling it.

Beside her, Matt held the reins in hands reddened with cold. He was swaddled in one of Dathne’s blankets too, but she could still feel him shivering. Suffering with the^; ^collapse of the kingdom’s fabric of magic. Even she, never as adept as Matt, was starting to feel it now … a thin cold scream on the edge of hearing.