The Awakened Mage (12 page)

He was rude and crude and caustic and compassionate. Loyal, implacable, honest and fair. His skin against hers was a benediction, his voice at her doorstep a song.

“Damn
you, Asher! Why couldn’t you have been hateful? Or—or married, or ugly, or old? Why couldn’t you have been
anyone
but yourself?”

“Who are you talking to, dearie?”

Startled, Dathne turned. Pushed her hands into her skirt’s capacious pockets and blanked her face. “Meister Beemfield! I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I had a customer. Can I help you?”

Meister Beemfield’s hat was askew on his head and there were tears in his faded blue eyes. “Oh, dearie,” he quavered, lost, bewildered. “Have you heard? It’s the king, lass. And the queen too, and that pretty daughter of theirs. Dead, dead, all dead. The heralds are crying it throughout the City!”

“No!” she gasped, suitably shocked, and tried to squeeze out a surprised tear or two. Failing, she groped for her handkerchief and hid her face. “How awful!”

Meister Beemfield was shaking his head. “You’d best shut up your shop for the day, dearie. There’ll be nobody buying books this afternoon. The heralds say there’s to be an announcement at five o’clock on the steps of Justice Hall. If you like I’ll escort you there now. The streets are fair thronged and there’s no saying what could happen when folks are ramshackled with dismay.”

He was the one who wanted to go, she realized. Wanted, and was perhaps afraid, feeling frail and overwhelmed by tragedy. Certainly he wasn’t wrong about the streets. One glance through the window showed her a solid mass of townsfolk streaming along in the direction of the City’s central square. One misstep, one stumble, and the old man might well be thoughtlessly trampled. For herself she could easily miss the gathering. Whatever the announcement she’d learn of it soon enough. But it meant so much to Meister Beemfield, and he was an excellent customer..,

And there was a good chance Asher would be there.

“That’s a very kind offer, sir,” she said. “Let me get my shawl.”

Lady Marnagh had been weeping. Her pale gray eyes were bloodshot and puffy and her lower lip persisted in trembling. Every so often, when she thought Asher wasn’t looking, a finger crept up to capture an errant tear. He would’ve offered her a kerchief but still felt in awe of her. Besides, she probably had her own. Probably, she was trying to be discreet.

They stood with the rest of Justice Hall’s staff inside the building, as Barlsman Holze graced the steps beyond the open double doors and prayed before the gathered multitude in the square. The mood in the hall was somber, the silence almost complete. A muffled sob here, a shuddering sigh there: they were the only sounds aside from Holze’s measured, stately voice. Magic carried his words through the air and into the hearing of the City’s inhabitants, who’d crushed themselves into the square so tightly Asher doubted you’d fit even a feather in there with them. More folk crowded at the windows of the various buildings lining the square. He thought they might even have tried crowding into the guardhouse, if Captain Orr—Pellen—had let them.

Staring at all those listening people he found himself counting heads. So many yellow, so many black. From up high like this he could see they formed a pattern. A lot of the yellow heads were gathered right up the front, around the base of Justice Hall’s wide marble steps. Others were thick around the edges of the square, so it looked like a pie: golden pastry edges with a thick blackberry filling.

It occurred to him he’d be hard-pressed to put a name to most of the Doranen faces out there. The only Doranen he could claim to know, even slightly, were Barlsman Holze and Conroyd Jarralt. Lady Marnagh. And a few of the Doranen on the General Council. Jarralt’s cronies. And only then because he couldn’t avoid them. Beyond that, Doranen society was a mystery to him. Like oil and water his folk and Gar’s sloshed around inside Dorana’s walls, touching frequently but never quite mixing. Even as Assistant Olken Administrator he’d never had to deal with the City’s Doranen. On the rare occasions over the past year or so when a Doranen was involved in Olken business, Gar had taken care of it. And when one of them invited Gar to dinner they never saw fit to include an Olken fisherman at the table. Even one who’d learned the hard way which fork to use when.

With an unpleasant shock he wondered if
Gar
could put a name to all their faces. The only times the prince mixed with his own folk was when duty or royal protocol meant he couldn’t escape the encounter, or when Darran’s protests and pleadings wore him down and he grudgingly accepted one of those invitations to dinner or the races or some other kind of exclusive Doranen entertainment.

Now though, thanks to disaster, that was about to change. Magickless Prince Gar could avoid his peers, but WeatherWorker King Gar was suddenly one of them. About to go sailing into strange and unfamiliar waters. And, like a rowboat tethered to a smack, Asher of Restharven was about to go sailing into them with him.

Asher bit his lip in dismay. How would the Doranen react to the notion of their almost invisible prince upon the throne of Lur? To a once-crippled outcast, more at home with the Olken than his own people, suddenly become the beating heart of all their lives? And how would they react when they realized he expected to marry one of their daughters so he might breed himself an heir?

Before the accident Gar had felt nervous at the thought of unveiling himself to them as a prince reborn. So how would it be now? He was an untried, untested magician, famous for all the wrong reasons, and now he was the king. The WeatherWorker. All that stood between Lur and the unknown dangers beyond the Wall. And not one of his own people knew if he was up to the job. To be honest, even Gar didn’t know. And if he stumbled, even once, even slightly, Conroyd Jarralt and his cronies would be on him like cats on a mouse.

Asher felt his heart sink like an anchor.
Barl bloody save me! I ain’t a bloody guard dog!

Holze had finally finished entreating Barl’s mercy and protection. Now he waited as the echoes from the crowd’s final response died away. Feeling Lady Marnagh’s disapproving gaze, Asher wrenched his attention back to the moment at hand and managed to mutter something appropriate at the tail end of the Hall’s employees’ heartfelt murmuring. Then he took a small step forward, the better to see the crowd and waited, hardly breathing.

“Now, good people of Dorana City, it falls upon me to answer the greatest question of all,” said Holze. He wore his finest vestments; the lowering sun struck multicolored fire from threads of gold and silver, from rubies and emeralds and deep purple amethysts. There were so many fresh blossoms tied into his braid he could!ve opened a flower shop. “Tradition dictates it is the Master Magician who names our next WeatherWorker. But our dearly beloved Durm still recovers from his injuries, so it falls upon me to stand in his place. Barl, in her infinite and mysterious wisdom, has decreed we must live our lives henceforth without the loving guidance of King Borne or the expectation of his glorious daughter Fane’s reign thereafter. But in her magnificent adoration of us, her children, Barl has yet kept the promise made to our forebears and ensured our continued peace, prosperity and safety. Therefore in her great name I give you His Majesty King Gar, WeatherWorker of Lur!”

As a swell of sound surged from the crowd, Asher heard shocked gasps behind him. He turned and there was Gar himself, walking through the gap between the gathered Justice Hall staff. Still dressed in unrelieved black, his bruised head bare of circlet or crown, his face was pale and set in grim lines. As though completely alone he passed between his staring subjects, straight by Asher, out through the open doorway and onto the steps of Justice Hall:

When the crowd saw him the noise threatened to shatter the sky. Shrieks. Shouts. Great cries of welcome, and of woe. Somewhere in the gathered press of flesh a man’s voice screamed, “King Gar! King Gar! Barl bless our King Gar!”

Another voice echoed him. Then another. And another. Then two voices in unison. Three. Ten. Thirty. Fifty. Louder and stronger, man, woman and child, the chant leaping from throat to throat like flames in a wheatfield.

“King Gar! King Gar! Barl bless our King Gar!”

There were Doranen voices raised out there, along with Olken. They were raised in here, too, Asher saw. Not as loudly as the folk outside, but with the same amount of passion. In the faces of the gathered staff he saw love, relief and a transcendent joy. Lur had a new WeatherWorker. They could go to bed tonight feeling safe, protected, knowing the world could continue unchanged, and for that they gave thanks. Which was all well and good and a nice way to finish the day, but how long would joy and gratitude last if Gar wasn’t ready?

Holze had dropped to his knees, head bowed to his chest in homage to the new king. Gar left him there for three heartbeats, then bent and drew the elderly cleric to his feet. Embraced him. The crowd’s chanting doubled in fervor and volume. Asher could feel his bones vibrating. The noise was so loud he thought it might bring the roof of Justice Hall down on all their heads and tumble the City’s buildings into rubble and dust.

On the steps outside, Gar released his hold on Barlsman Holze and turned to face the crowd. His hands lifted high overhead and a stream of golden light burst forth irom his outstretched fingertips. Up and up and up into the air it poured, and suddenly the world smelled of free-sias and jasmine and all sweet things. The crowd fell raggedly silent, watching, as the raw magic coalesced over their heads, becoming a thick golden cloud.

Gar clenched his fingers into fists. The golden cloud shivered. Shuddered. Collapsed into thousands and thousands of flower petals that rained onto all the upturned faces of his people. As the crowd gasped in wonder, Asher swallowed his own surprise. It was hard to get used to Gar doing magic. It was like watching a crippled bird spread its wings and fly effortlessly, casually, the way it should’ve flown from birth.

“Citizens of Dorana!” Gar cried. “Yesterday there walked among you a man known in this kingdom as His Royal Highness Prince Gar of Lur. Yesterday that man died, along with all his family, and today is reborn as your king. Your servant. Barl’s instrument in the world, whose only ambition is to maintain and nurture the strength of her Wall. Whose only reason for living is to keep you as you are: loved and safe and obedient to her will. Yesterday I was a prince with one father, one mother, one sister. Today I am a king with more fathers and mothers and sisters than I can count. Yes, and brothers too, aunts and uncles and cousins and children. For the people of Lur are my family now. And I will love my family unto death, and defend them from any who would wish them harm. In Barl’s name I swear it, and may magic desert me if my heart and oath are not true!”

A breathless hush. A quivering silence. Then:

“King Gar! King Gar! King Gar!”
Asher felt the small tight knot in his gut unravel just a little. Gar had sounded calm. Confident. At peace with himself and the burden Barl had placed, for no good reason, on his unready shoulders.

He’d sounded like his dead father. Like a king. As Asher watched, weak-kneed with relief, Gar started down the steps of Justice Hall. Holze reached out a hand to him, saying something in an alarmed undertone; the words were lost in the crowd’s cries of adoration and acclaim. Gar ignored him. Asher pushed forward to the doorway, incredulous. Was Gar mad? He couldn’t just saunter into that mob on his own! Not that he was in danger, not from any deliberate unlawful act. But all those people! The unbridled emotion! They’d want to touch him, talk to him, he’d be overwhelmed. Horrified, Asher stared at Holze and Holze stared back, his hands spread in helpless disbelief.

“Do something,” he hissed. “Start up another prayer or a hymn, quick! We can’t let him—”

But it was too late. Gar had reached the bottom of the marble steps. Was stepping into the crowd. The Doranen before him fell back, pushing against the people behind them. A hesitant middle-aged Doranen man in blue brocade spoke to him. There were flower petals caught in his unbound yellow hair. Gar replied, then nodded and rested a hand on his shoulder. The man stared at Gar, speechless, then burst into sobs. Gar embraced him. Held him close for a heartbeat, then let go.

The simple gesture broke the stunned silence and the crowd’s uncertain stillness. Suddenly Gar was surrounded by eager, reaching hands, Doranen and Olken both, seeking to touch their miracle king. To comfort and be comforted in this time of pain and loss and new beginnings. His aura glowing like a candle, Gar moved through the press of bodies in the square, embracing and being embraced, and his people made way for his progress. Welcomed him into their arms and their hearts and laid the ghosts of his family to rest.

Asher watched in silence for a time, then turned again to Holze. “Well. Seems he knows what he’s doin’ after all.”

There were tears on Holze’s seamed cheeks. “He is indeed his father’s son,” he whispered, hungry eyes following Gar’s slow progress through the square. “For the first time since I saw that terrible gap in the Eyrie’s fence, I am not afraid.”

Asher bit bis hp. “Don’t s’pose you know where Lord Jarralt is, do you? Thought he’d be here for this.”

“I have known Conroyd Jarralt all his life, Asher,” Holze said softly. “He is many things, not all of them comfortable, but a heretic and a traitor he is not. Conroyd loves this kingdom. He would never do anything to harm it. If you believe nothing else, believe that.”

There was no point arguing. Asher nodded. “Aye, sir.”

“I’ll return to Barl’s Chapel now, and pray for their late Majesties and Her Highness. If His Majesty should need me for any reason, send a runner.”

“Aye, sir,” said Asher again, and stood aside to let Holze pass. Before following him back into the hall, he cast a last look over the crowd and his king. Likely Gar would be out there for hours yet, the way every last Olken and Doranen was trying to lay a hand on him. Which meant it looked like another late night for one Meister Asher, formerly of Restharven.