The Awakened Mage (16 page)

But Gar wasn’t dead, and his late-born powers appeared formidable. Which meant that yet again House Jarralt was to be denied its proper place in the world.

Fate could be monstrously unfair.

Not for the first time, Jarralt regretted his lack of a daughter. He could have married a daughter to the fate-favored scion of House Torvig and died less unhappily, knowing his blood flowed through the veins of Gar’s child, the kingdom’s next WeatherWorker. But no. Even that small consolation was denied him. Two children he’d been granted, like most citizens of Lur. Even if dispensation could be arranged for the birth of a third child it was far too late now and just as likely his dull and dutiful wife would waste the effort on another son.

Still. Where the prospect of rightful glory was concerned, not
all
hope was lost. Fat Durm’s hold on life was yet precarious, or so discreet inquiries informed him. With the Master Magician’s successor carelessly unnamed, Gar would be forced to make the appointment himself. And it was clear that in all the kingdom there was no one better bred, better qualified or more deserving of the honor than Lord Conroyd Jarralt.

“My dear,” a voice beside him murmured. “The wine.”

Jarralt blinked and watched his surroundings swim back into focus. His dining room, lavishly appointed. His wife, lavishly jeweled. His friends, waiting patiently for his next unimpeachable pronouncement. “Wine?”

The immaculate Olken servant standing at his elbow bowed and held out a bottle for his inspection. “As requested, my lord. Vontifair Icewine, vintage 564. Chilled for precisely forty minutes.”

Nole Daltrie wagged a finger. “564? Cuttin’ it a bit fine there aren’t you, Con? Icewine don’t hold its bite for more than eighty years. Any longer than that and you might as well pour us a glass of piss and vinegar.”

Con.
Jarralt hid his irritation behind a bland smile. “Don’t worry, Nole. The eightieth anniversary of this vintage’s bottling isn’t until tomorrow.”

Daltrie hooted and slapped the table. “Vintage icewine and vintage Conroyd! What an evening!”

Jarralt nodded at the servant, who broke the bottle’s de-warded seal and splashed a mouthful into the next course’s wineglass. The icewine’s thin, snow-laden tang sliced through the dining room’s lingering redolence of honey-baked lamb, muscatel venison and spiced pork; Jarralt’s guests sighed and licked their lips. He rested the rim of the glass against his teeth, subduing greed, and permitted a trickle of clear blue indulgence into his mouth.

It cleansed his jaded palate like magic.

“Perfect,” he said, lowering the glass, and nodded again at the servant. The other glasses were scrupulously burdened with three inches of icewine, not a hair’sbreadth more; the disappointment-laced avarice in his guests’ eyes almost made him laugh out loud. Waiting, he traveled his gaze around all their guzzling faces. When the servant had withdrawn and they were again alone, he remarked, “So. A new day dawns for our beloved kingdom.”

As though invisible cords had been cut his fellow diners let out silent sighs of relief and relaxed in their chairs. Morel, Sorvold’s robusdy handsome wife, fluttered her jewel-crusted fingers. “I must say, Conroyd dear, it’s all terribly disconcerting. I mean, the boy’s a
child.
In magic, at least, if not in fact, and even there he’s still young. What kind of a king will he make? Does anybody know? Does anybody know
him?
I certainly don’t!”

Iyasha Hafar was nodding her vigorous agreement; her diamond pendant earrings prismed the chandelier’s glim-light and scattered rainbows across the tablecloth. “Ex-acdy! Why, he’s practically a stranger! I think he’s only ever attended one of my garden parties and I’m sure even then it was under sufferance! I’d swear you could count on the fingers of one hand the number of invitations he’s accepted in the last year.”

“Doranen invitations,” her husband added dryly. “As far as I can make out, he’s always available for carousing with the Olken.”

Tobe Boqur replaced his emptied wineglass on the table and belched. “Don’t be too hard on him, Gord. For a start it’s been his job to mix with Olken society, and for another—”

“For another,” said Madri Boqur, smiling at her husband as she finished his sentence for him in her irritating little-girl whisper, “I don’t imagine he ever felt comfortable around his own kind. Not while he was—” She blushed. “You know.”

“I think the word you’re avoiding is ‘crippled,’ ” Jarralt replied. “No, no, my friends, please don’t look like that. I assure you, he applied the term to himself often enough. Borne’s son is nothing if not a realist.”

“You’d know, serving with him on the Privy Council,” said Payne Sorvold. “What else is he, do you think?”

“Our king,” said Lynthia Daltrie. Her sharply jutting chin looked more stubborn than ever. Nole had long since lost the battle to control her; such a pity. “As ordained by Barl and therefore above reproach. I have to say I liked his speech in the square today. It showed heart. Courage. I think his father would’ve been proud.”

A reflective silence fell. Jarralt waited for his wife to break it: Barl save him, she was a woman who couldn’t abide a room without words in it.

“All I know,” Ethienne said peevishly, “is that it will feel most peculiar, addressing that unfortunate young man as ‘Your Majesty.’ He’s younger than both of my boys!”

“I suppose he’s got what it takes to
be
king,” Madri said uncertainly. “I mean to say… Barl wouldn’t allow an incompetent to inherit tile throne. Would she?”

Almost as one their gazes flicked to the glass balcony doors through which gleamed the Wall’s distant golden haze. Jarralt hid a smile at the sight of their apprehensive expressions. Even tediously devout Lynthia had her doubts. As well she should have. Lur was in greater danger now than ever before, even during the schism. How lucky for his friends and their children that Conroyd Jarralt was at hand. Watching their silent dismay, the way they tried not to look at each other or reveal unflattering fear, he again wanted to laugh out loud.

Ah, dear. They were good enough people, these friends of his, but as transparent as his dining-room windows. Lacking any kind of real ambition or inner fire. They represented the best that Doranen society had to offer, yet not a one of them was strong enough to wield real power. To balance the kingdom in the vital role of Master Magician, or wear the crown of the WeatherWorker.

Only he was. And praise Barl for that. For if Gar’s power should prove insufficient… if the strain of WeatherWorking killed him sooner rather than later, as had happened more than once in tne past… if he should fail to produce an heir or sired one as crippled as he himself had used to be…

Well.

Thunder boomed over their heads, rattling the window-panes and the emptied wineglasses on the table. Jarralt’s secret smile died. “What was that?” he demanded, pushing to his feet.

Ethienne pointed at the sky beyond the doors. “Look! Clouds!”

“And lightning!” added Tobe Boqur. The words had hardly left his mouth when the room strobed a second time as, outside, spears of blue-white fire streaked earthwards from the rapidly thickening atmosphere. Even as they watched, the Wall’s golden glow dimmed, dimmed, and disappeared.

Gord Hafar stood and crossed to the doors. Flung them open and thrust his hand outside. He looked back over his shoulder. “It’s going to rain,” he announced. ‘The air’s alive with it. You never told us Gar had been given the Weather Magics, Conroyd.” Gord sounded accusing. In his eyes, a shadow of hurt surprise.

Fool. Just because he shared his icewine did Gord think he’d share his secrets, too? “You didn’t need to know,” he replied brusquely. “Before the accident there was still a question mark over the succession. There was no way of telling who would prove to be the stronger WeatherWorker, Fane or Gar, without testing them first.”

Payne Sorvold cleared his throat, his expression disapproving. “You took a risk, Conroyd. The law is clear on the matter. Only two people might possess Weather Magic at the same time: the WeatherWorker and the WeatherWorker in Waiting. Such action was a recipe, for another schism. As Privy Councilor you should have stopped it.”

Jarralt spared the man an impatient glance, inwardly seething. Who was Payne Sorvold to task
him?
“Exceptional circumstances require the taking of risks and the bending of law. As Privy Councilor it’s my duty to recognize that. Besides, the danger of schism was Borne’s doing, not mine. If he hadn’t bullied his way into a dispensation for a second child we never would’ve faced a divided succession in the first place. If you’re going to criticize anyone, Payne, why not start with the General Council for weakly acquiescing to—”

“The General Council,” Nole said loudly, his flabby cheeks reddening, “weakly acquiesced to nothing! We did what had to be done for the good of the kingdom. We acted according to law
and
with Barl’s blessing!”

“And why we’re arguing about it now, nearly twenty years later, I cannot begin to understand!” added Lynthia. “The point is moot!”

“As is the question of Gar receiving the Weather Magic,” said Jarralt. His gaze remained fixed upon the curdling sky. “With the death of his sister he is once more an only child. The line of succession is clear, and the law stands.”

“On a sprained ankle, if you ask me,” muttered Nole.

“Nobody did, dear,” said Lynthia, and patted his arm. “Never mind. As Con says, what’s done is done. All that really matters is we have a WeatherWorker and the kingdom is safe.”

As if to punctuate her words a thunderclap like the end of the world boomed over their heads. The women shrieked. The men shouted. Jarralt laughed. Beyond the open glass doors the murky cloud-covered sky gushed rain like a woman whose waters have broken.

King Gar, WeatherWorker of Lur, was born.

Jarralt eased away from his dining table. Crossed to the doors leading out to the uncovered balcony. Stepped over the threshold and into tile rain.

“What are you doing, Conroyd?” Ethienne demanded breathlessly. “You can’t stand out there, you’ll be soaked!

All your clothes will be ruined! Come back inside. Conroyd? Conroyd, are you listening?
Conroyd!”

He ignored her. Ignored the surprised protests of his dinner guests. Walked to the very edge of the balcony, six tall stories above the ground, braced his widespread hands on the balustrade and looked out across the City. Looked further, beyond the City’s encircling wall to the invisible horizon. The view was exactly the same: rain, rain, rain. The weeping clouds went on forever.

His new silk brocade tunic was sodden, a dragging weight against his shoulders. Rivulets of water ran down his arms, his chest, his legs, and pooled in his brand-new shoes. Yes, Ethienne, all ruined.

He tipped back his head and felt more water from his soaking hair run down the back of his neck. Eyes open, mouth open, he lifted his face to the pouring rain. Drowned himself, blinded himself, in the miracle of Gar’s calling.

Every droplet was a needlepoint of acid etching him with bitterness and despair, in his flesh, his bones, his bowels. In his heart, and the secret places of his soul.

Borne… you bastard. You bastard. You’ve beaten me again.

Released at last from the Weather Magic’s merciless grasp, Gar swayed drunkenly, bloodily, then collapsed unstrung to the floor beside the map of Lur where the little clouds dropped tiny vanishing raindrops from the mountains to the sea. Groaning, retching, shaking, he began to laugh.

Asher dropped to his knees beside him. “It ain’t funny!” he shouted, fright shattering his voice. “You maniac! You great ravin’
lunatic!
What are you laughin’ for? It ain’t bloody funny!”

Flopping like a landed fish, Gar stared up at him through a mask of blood. “It worked!” he gasped, spitting scarlet bubbles. “Did you see? It
worked!
I made it rain!
Everywhere!
Fane never managed that!”

“Aye, aye,” Asher muttered, scrabbling in his pockets for a handkerchief. “You made it rain and you made a mess and you took ten years off my life, you daft bastard. Hold still!”

“You know… that hurt,” Gar wheezed as Asher mopped the worst of the gore from his face. “A lot. But it was incredible! The
power.
I never knew—I never
dreamed
—oh, Asher! Aren’t you sorry you’ll never know what it’s like? That you’ll never command a power like it? Aren’t you… I don’t know… jealous? You can tell me. I won’t mind. I’ll understand.”

Asher stared down at him. At his shivering, shuddering, pain-racked body. “Oh aye. I be so jealous I could spit.”

Gar grinned redly and stared up at the glass-domed ceiling, enchanted. “Look,” he whispered.
“Look
what I did.”

“Aye,” he said as the rain fell from the quietly clouded sky. The sound of it striking the transparent ceiling woke gentle echoes in the chamber below. “Look what you did, Now shut your trap while I find somethin’ to clean you up proper. ‘Cause if you go back to the Tower lookin’ like this and Darran sees you, sure as sharks the ole crow’ll find some way to make this all
my
fault.” And then, relenting, added roughly, “Your da’d be proud right now, I reckon. And your ma too.”

Fresh tears gathered in Gar’s bloody eyes. “I hope so,” he whispered, triumph extinguished, lurking grief ascendant once more. “Oh, I hope so.”

Asher cursed.
Fool. Damned fool. Just when you got him smilin’ again…

“Come on,” he said. Slipping an arm beneath Gar’s shoulders, he levered the exhausted king upright. “Scoot yourself backwards and lean against the wall till you’re feelin’ better.” Looking around the chamber, he scowled. “Why ain’t there any chairs in here?”

“I don’t need a chair,” said Gar, sliding by inches across the parquetry floor. He reached the wall, slumped against it and groaned. “I’m fine.”

Asher stood. “You don’t look fine. You look like shit.”

Eyes half closed, Gar raised a finger. “Now, now. Remember to whom you speak.”

“Excuse me,” he said. “You look like royal shit.”