The Awakened Mage (45 page)

Standing before them, hands folded on the lectern, he let his gaze roam their animal faces as they continued to shout and stamp. Cattle? No. Even cattle had a semblance of purpose. The Olken and Doranen of this pallid kingdom were sheep. Willing to follow anyone who could promise them peace and an endless procession of magical days. It made him ill to see it. That a race as majestic and proud as the Doranen should come to
this!
This bleating, following, milling flock.

Whatever strength Barl’s escapees had possessed it was bled to nothing here in their descendants. Their descendants were paper Doranen … destined all to burn.

He unfolded his hands and held them up in modest appeal. “Good people, good people, I beg you: enough!”

Ragged silence fell. Those fools who’d leapt to their feet resumed their seats. Like penned sheep who heard the rattle of the gate unlocking, they stared and waited, hoping for food.

“My dear councilors,” he said, infusing his voice with sorrow. “These are dark days indeed. Our beloved kingdom has come to a pretty pass. Brought to the brink of destruction by the actions of one misguided man. I know—” He raised one hand in warning. “You loved your former king. Love him still as a prince and the sad representative of a fallen house. I commend your love, my subjects. I do. Your willingness to overlook his profound errors of judgment tells me all I need to know of your hearts. Good hearts. Stout hearts. But not, perhaps, as wise as Barl might wish them to be.”

A muttering now, and a flurry of exchanged glances. He waited a moment then rode roughshod over their objections.

“Blind devotion is a dangerous thing,” he told them. “It was blind devotion that handed power to the traitor, Asher, furnishing him with the means to dabble in forbidden magic.” Another pause, as a gasp rippled its way through the flock. “Only Barl knows the true intent of his black, unloving heart. Only Barl knows what damage he has wrought in the paradise she died to create.”

Nole Daltrie, always reliable, stood and cried out: “What are you saying, Com— Your Majesty? Do you think the kingdom’s in danger?”

“The kingdom was in danger from the day Gar elevated that stinking fisherman to heights he didn’t deserve,” he replied. Conroyd’s belief that, fervently and passionately felt. Shared. “Now I fear we face more than mere danger. I fear we face catastrophe.”

Not muttering now but cries of consternation. Daltrie exchanged horrified looks with the rest of Conroyd’s councilor friends. “Do you say the Wall itself is in jeopardy?”

The thought was so appalling it froze their voices in then throats. Stricken, Daltrie sank back slowly to bis seat.

Morg nodded. “Hard as I find it to say so, Lord Daltrie, yes. I fear it might well be.”

“No!”
they shouted, thawed by terror.
“Save us!
” they begged him with tears in their eyes.

Holze stood, uninvited, and raised his voice above the lamentations. “Councilors, control yourselves! In Blessed Barl’s name, I command you, have faith!” As the noise subsided, he continued. “Barl will not let her Wall be defeated. Has she not delivered us from Asher’s evil and given us into the care of King Conroyd, in whom her power resides? Have faith, I tell you. And be guided by His Majesty.”

Ah, Efrim. Barl-sodden, but useful. Morg nodded to the cleric then turned back to the assembled councilors. “I am your king,” he said quietly as Holze sat down. “Of course I will save you. But I fear it won’t be easy, Thanks to Asher’s meddling, the balance of magical power in the kingdom is gravely disturbed. How badly the Wall is affected I don’t yet know … but we must face the bitter truth. It is affected.”

The Olken councilors were moaning. Covering their faces with trembling hands and rocking on then haunches.

Every Doranen eye was upon them, and the looks were far from friendly.

“In his lust for a power that was never meant for him, Asher has endangered the life of every soul in this kingdom,” said Morg. Letting his words bite now, like the tip of a lash. “And every Olken who encouraged him to think he was more than an Olken bears a share of his guilt. Fear not—I will not punish the undeserving. But I tell you here and now, guild meisters and mistresses of Lur: look hard at your people. Examine their behaviors. For henceforth I hold you accountable, and will see you answer for their sins.”

Not a sound from the Olken. And if any one of them had harbored some lingering affection for Asher, the looks on their faces told him it was stone dead now. He hid a smile.

Holze said, “And what of the Wall, Your Majesty? What of the WeatherWorking?”

“History shows us we have a period of grace,” he replied. “Some short time to live without WeatherWorking before we are undone. Therefore I.shall withdraw from the public eye, that I might take into myself the Weather Magics and study how best to apply them. To undo the damage Asher has wreaked and avert a dire disaster.”

Now it was Payne Sorvold who spoke. “You’ll require a Master Magician . . . Your Majesty.”

He nodded. “I shall appoint Durm’s successor once this crisis is past, Lord Sorvold. For now all I need to help me restore our beloved kingdom is contained in his books and journals. Have no fear, sir. I shall prevail.”

Sorvold nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty. And what of Your Majesty’s Privy Council?”

He felt his expression harden. “It too must wait until the crisis is past.” He unpinned his gaze from Sorvold’s frowning face and swept it around the hall. “Good people, do you not yet understand? By the merest whisper have we escaped a disaster of Asher’s making. Life as once we knew it has changed. Perhaps forever. Listen, now, as I explain more fully what I mean…”

Carted back to the Tower like so much lumber, Gar stifled a groan when he saw Darran waiting for him on his palatial prison’s front steps. Even dredged up a smile as the old man bowed and insisted on opening the carriage door for him. The gesture came hard, though. Any brief satisfaction he’d felt in defying Conroyd before the General Council, of warning him to leave the Olken alone, had faded. All he felt now was ill, and tired, and desperately sad.

“Well, old friend, it’s done,” he said, as Conroyd’s carriage rattled away. “I am again Prince Gar the Magickless.”

There were tears in Darran’s eyes. “Yes, sir.”

He willed his own eyes to stay dry. Forced his voice to remain steady and strong. “It’s for the best. What cap any of this be but Barl’s will, after all? My magic is gone, and that’s hardly Conroyd’s fault. In truth, none of this is his fault. I may hate him, but I can’t blame him. At least not for being the best remaining magician in the kingdom.”

“No, sir.”

“I’m going to the stables now. To say goodbye to the horses before—”

Darran touched his sleeve. “I’m so sorry, sir. They’re already gone. Men from the Livestock Guild. I couldn’t stop them, they had written orders from Lord Ja— from the king. It was all I could do to hide the little donkey. If we keep it in a pasture down the back no one will know we have it. I just thought… well… it may come in useful. As a lawn mower, if nothing else.”

Poor Darran. He looked so stricken, so brimful of guilt. “It’s all right,” Gar said gently. “Of course you couldn’t stop them.” _Ballodair. Oh, Ballodair. _”Well, if there’s no point visiting the stables I’ll go for a walk instead. Don’t fret if I’m gone for some time, Darran. I have a lot to think about.”

“Yes, sir,” said Darran. And, as Gar turned away, said, “Sir?”

Gar looked back. “Yes?”

“Be careful. Don’t… walk too far. Don’t give that man an excuse to take anything else.”

He smiled. “What is there left for him to take, Darran?”

Darran stepped closer, his face screwed up with pain and trepidation. “Your life.”

“My
life!”
He laughed. “Ah yes. My life. Do you know something, Darran? I’m beginning to think he can have it, and welcome.”

“Sir!”

Relenting, he patted the old man’s shoulder. “It’s all right,” he said, and started to back away. T was joking.”

Darran shook a finger at him, just as he used to when he worked at the palace and was scolding a younger, happier Gar. “Really? Well, as jokes go it wasn’t the least bit funny!”

Turning his back on Darran’s disapproval he walked away and kept on walking, until his family’s crypt appeared among the trees. Quite possibly he was breaking Conroyd’s rules by coming this far but he didn’t care. If Conroyd thought to keep him from his family he was very much mistaken.

As ever, the crypt was cool. Dark. Fumbling for lantern and matches, skinning his knuckles, he tried to forget that once light had been his for the asking.

The amplified candlelight cast attenuated shadows up the walls and across the faces of his family. He kissed his father, and his mother. Tickled his sister’s feet. Arranged himself uncomfortably on the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he said into the silence. “I’d have come sooner but… a lot has happened since you left.”

His mother whispered:
That’s all right, dear. You’re a busy man.

“Not as busy as you might think,” he replied. “Father, I have a confession. I’ve lost the two best things you ever gave me: your crown and your horse. It seems you raised a careless son.”

A father’s disappointment.
Very. Can’t you get them back again?

Of course he can’t. He’s useless.
A sister’s angry scorn.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I did the best I could. Unfortunately my best proved inadequate to the task.”

Silence. Were they really speaking, or was his mind at last unhinged? And if it was … did it even matter?

Typical,
he heard Fane sneer.
Whinge, moan, sigh. It’s a wonder you didn’t die years ago, drowned in a butt of self-pity. Don’t just sit there, idiot. Do something.

Even imagined, the sharp words stung. He grabbed hold of his sister’s stone foot and hauled himself upright. “Do
whatT
he demanded of her. “I am powerless. Exiled in my own City. Discarded, irrelevant and alone. What would
you
do, if you were me?”

The answer came not in words but as a spearing shaft of memory. Of intent, abandoned.

Barl’s diary. If Durm was right, their only hope. How or why, he had no idea. But he trusted Durm. He had to. He had nowhere else to turn.

Damn it, how could he have
forgotten!
He had to find that diary. Had to go back to the Tower, now, and search Durm’s books again before Conroyd discovered their removal and took them away. No matter he’d searched the collection twice, without luck. The diary
had
to be there. Cunningly hidden, as was Durm’s devious habit..
. Please, Barl, let me find it.
Show me a way out of this disaster.

He dropped a grateful kiss on his sister’s cold stone cheek and ran all the way back to the Tower.

Blistered and weary, the knapsack on her back as heavy as an anvil, Dathne trudged along the empty road that led to the Black Woods. To Veira and her village, beating at their timber heart. There was dust on her face, turned streakily to mud by infrequent, unhelpful tears. She was chilled, she was hungry, she was eaten with despair. The sun had set two hours earlier, and weak moonlight was her only guide. She’d tripped and stumbled a dozen times, lost her footing completely and crashed to the roadway once. Her scraped knees and elbows stung viciously; her tired mind was one vast and aching bruise.
Asher. Asher. Asher.

She hardly recognized herself, so diminished felt her spirit. Misery was a crushing weight, compressing her bones to chalk. She never knew she could feel so small.

Asher.

That catastrophe seemed worse even than the now unstoppable onslaught of the Final Days. Asher was flesh and blood to her, he was laughter and whispers and callused

fingers, touching. Pleasure like magic coursing through her veins. The Final Days were unimaginable. For all her frightened dreaming, she couldn’t seem to make them real. But Asher was real. Asher was arrested. And unless some miracle intervened, Asher was dead … along with any hope for the kingdom’s future.

The thought knifed pain through her whole body, so swift and severe she couldn’t walk. Gasping, hurting, she braced her hands upon her thighs and waited for the torment to ease. A kind of wild rushing wind stormed through her mind, blotting out thought, obliterating memory.

She welcomed it.

Gradually the pain eased and reason returned. She straightened, inch by hesitant inch. The night stretched for miles around her, inhabited by stars, and trees, and small rustling creatures.

Then, carrying keenly on the thin cold air, new sounds. Horseshoes ringing hollow on hard-packed clay, slowing from a brisk jog to a cautious walk. A wooden creak of turning wheels. Approaching round the bend ahead, a looming shape framed in dancing torchlight.

Heart pounding, she waited for the cart to reach her. Watched as the shaggy brown pony pulling it slowed, slowed then stopped in a puffing cloud of breath. She looked up into the hooded, mysterious face of the person holding the pony’s reins.

Gnarled hands pushed the hood back onto rounded, slumping shoulders. “Dathne.”

She nodded. Tried to smile. “Veira.”

“Well, child,” the old woman said, and sniffed. “If you were a few years younger and my joints a little less creaky

I’d fling your skirts up over your head and put you over my knees for this.”

Dathne stared at her, speechless.

In the torchlight Veira’s face leapt and flickered with shadows. “But you’re a young woman, and I’m an old one, and I don’t suppose a paddling would make either of us feel any better. So don’t just stand there gawking. Come up here beside me and let’s get you home to bed.”

They traveled in awkward silence for nearly three hours, along the narrow road that drew them deep into the Black Woods like a crooked, beckoning finger. At first the trees grew thinly, with spindly trunks and lacy foliage, but the further the pony ambled them into the gloom-ridden forest the more robust and vigorous the djelbas, honey-pines and weeping noras became. The air grew close and still as more and more of the star-strewn sky disappeared from view. Even though she was miles closer now to Barl’s Wall and the mountains that anchored it, its golden glow was reduced to a smeary shadow. Anyone living within this sea of trees could easily forget the Wall existed.