The Awakened Mage (52 page)

Ha. Praise Barl for small favors.

Ox wandered over, planted his pikestaff like a walking-stick and leaned. “Going to be a big crowd to see you get your comeuppance, midnight tomorrow,” he remarked. “I hear the general councilors are near to drawing straws to see who gets the best view from up on that dais they’re building. I hear Guild Meister Roddle’s been offering money to make sure he’s seated right down the very front.”

If he said nothing, Ox would stop leaning and hit him with the pikestaff. If he said something, anything, Ox would stop leaning and—

He sighed.

“Midnight tomorrow, eh?” he answered, as though he didn’t know. “You reckon it’s goin’ to rain?”

Ox stopped leaning and hit him with the pikestaff.

Spitting blood and a broken tooth, Asher rolled his face into his folded arms and took refuge once more in sleep. He didn’t dream this time, of pigs or hens or Dathne, or anyone else at all.

Blessedly alone in Conroyd’s townhouse, with Ethienne at long last noisily departed, the household staff dismissed and Willer sent to oversee arrangements for the impending Olken curfew, Morg sat in a chair in Conroyd’s library and gave himself over to thought.

The Weather Orb, dutifully delivered, sat in its box on a table before him. Teasing. Taunting. Tantalizing. All that magic but a thin skin’s thickness away.

There
had
to be a way to get at it.

Imprisoned within, Conroyd raged. Unlike Durm, whose guilt-stained soul had wept and wailed and begged Barl for mercy, for aid, Conroyd seemed more affronted than anything to find himself a captive inside his own body. The first shock passed, he now jabbered ceaselessly in the background, demanding explanations, insisting upon answers, offering help.

Help…

The fool, to think Morg required the help of a sheep. That he was in any position to bargain, wheedle. Make deals.
Arrangements.

Morg reached out and stroked the Orb. Its quiescent colors swirled, sensing him. Rejecting him. His flesh belonged to Conroyd, but the spirit within was his own. The Orb would never give him access.
Never.

Unless…

An idea, glimmering. A flickered spark of inspiration. He held his breath lest even a gentle exhalation extinguish hope. Could it be managed? Was it
possible!
Could Morg and Conroyd merge into a single entity just long enough for the Orb not to recognize Barl’s bitter enemy? To grant him her Weather Magics that he might use them to bring down her Wall?

It would never have worked using Durm. Even with all his maudlin despair the fat fool had been far too strong. And their minds, at the core, were ultimately incompatible. The only way to control him had been to keep him safely, rigorously caged. Letting him out, even a little, would have been fatal.

But Conroyd? Ah, Conroyd. Here was a soul of a different stripe. One with faint echoes of his own darkness.

Even better, he and Conroyd were blood related, ties of family whispering down the centuries. They belonged in each other, as he and Durm had never belonged.

And Conroyd was accepted by Barl.

Sitting back, closing his eyes, he reached inside and touched small Conroyd’s mind, gentle as sunshine.

You desire to help me, cousin? You wish to sip from the cup of power only I can hold to your lips?

Little Conroyd whimpered, suddenly uncertain.

Have no fear, blood of my blood. You were born for greatness. Born to raise the Doranen to the heights of all known mastery. Help me and together we shall birth an Age of Glory never before known in this land!

Little Conroyd’s greed and ambition flared like a torch at midnight.

Come to me, Conroyd,
he whispered.
Let us mingle for a moment.

Conroyd came to him, unthinking and unaware. Morg lowered the bars of the cage around him. Let him out. Let him
breathe …

... and at the same instant breathed him in. Melted Conroyd like butter and soaked him through all his nooks and crannies, flavoring his spirit with the essence of Jarralt. Hiding himself like a fox evading hounds in running water.

Conroyd shrieked once, and was silent.

Time passed. At length something not quite Conroyd, not quite Morg, sat upright in its cradling chair. Removed the Weather Orb from its wooden box and held it in its hands. Sighing, it smiled at the glorious swirl of color. The promise it held of death and destruction. The spell required to transfer the magic from Orb to waiting mind remained, a legacy from Durm. All it needed to do now was recite the words. Trigger the act of Transference. Steal the bitch whore’s precious power.

The part of this new thing that was Morg took a moment to prepare. To ensure that he continued safely entwined with Conroyd. Satisfied, he sank beneath the surface again and the thing held up the Orb before its shining eyes. Spoke the words of the Transference incantation …

... and waited for victory.

Within the Orb the colors swirled. Deepened. Took on luster and life. The creature watched, exultant, as they poured out of the Orb and over its hands. Into its hands. As they sank inside it, filling it with knowledge, with power. With the key to this kingdom’s destruction.

And then … hesitation. The pulsing Orb trembled, the colors shifted. Darkened. Crimson and gold changed to purple and black and began writhing as though alive, furious, and in pain.

Barl’s long-dead voice cried:
No! No! This is not for you, Morg! Never for you!

But still the Orb tried to empty itself of magic, sensing yet the presence of an untainted vessel. The thing surged to its feet, howling, as the flesh of its fingers seared. Sizzled. As the darkness inside the Orb flooded outside, up its arms and over its body like a wave of foul black ink.

Morg wrenched himself free from Conroyd’s cloying presence. Threw back his head and screamed in furious desperation. “Bitch! Whore! You won’t keep them from me again, Barl! I
will have themH

No, Morgan,
her whispering voice replied.
No, you will not.

The Orb burst into flame. Within heartbeats the air in the library was thickened with the stench of charred flesh and charred magic.

Morg screamed and dropped the ruined Orb. It fell to the floor and smashed into pieces. He collapsed a moment later, crushing its blackened shards to powder beneath his convulsing body as oblivion came to claim him.

It was Darran who found the diary. Fussing, fusspot Darran with his passion for order and symmetry, his determination that things must be just
so.
His busy fingers felt the irregular thickness in the aged leather binding of a text on primer exercises for junior magicians. His critical eyes saw the difference between the front and back covers and made him wonder…

Sitting beside him on the study floor, Gar slit the book’s apparently untouched stitching with his dagger and eased the diary out of hiding. Held it in hands that trembled and wondered if he was dreaming.

“Barl save us,” breathed Darran, astonished. “There really is a diary!”

Barl save them indeed. And in her own words, no less, if the diary was truly once hers. Was it the miracle he’d been waiting for? Hoping for? Believing in against all expectation of fulfilment?

If it wasn’t, it was the closest thing he’d found.

He let the diary fall open. Stared at the swift, untidy writing, the faded ink strokes, the imprints of history. Struggling, he made sense of the first few lines.

It saddens me to think of the magics we must leave behind, but in this new land magic must be

a thing of order and discipline, not an everyday indulgence or—

“Gracious,” said Darran, peering. “It looks like a lot of old chicken scratchings! Do you think you can read it, sir?”

Gar let his fingertips caress the page. Inhaled the scent of musty dust and time, feeling hope’s candle flare. He smiled.

“Yes. I can read it.”

Darran released a gusty sigh. “Praise Barl for small mercies,” he said. “But might I suggest you read it later? The king’s men will be here soon, wanting these books. And for once I’m inclined to believe what Willer says: we don’t want to keep them waiting.”

So he hid the diary at the back of a bookshelf and hurried to help Darran pack away the rest of Durm’s collected life and learnings. When they were done, and the books, papers and journals were neatly boxed and stacked by the Tower’s front doors he made himself stand still in the middle of the tiled foyer floor for a moment and breathe, just breathe.

“What now, sir?” said Darran.

“Now?” He shook his head to clear it. Wiped away sweat with his forearm. “Now I have work, Darran. And if Barl is merciful and truly hears our prayers there’ll be something in these pages that can not only save this kingdom but Asher as well.”

“Then you’d better get started, sir,” said Darran. “And have no fear. I’ll see you’re not distracted or disturbed.”

Gar spared him a quick smile. “Good man.”

As Darran’s tired, drawn face tit up with an answering smile, Gar turned and headed for the spiral staircase. Took it three treads at a time, thinking:

Please, Barl. Please. Be merciful, just this once.

Pellen Orrick sat at his desk and frowned at the reports spread before him.
No sign… .no sign… no sign…

Dathne the bookseller and Gar’s former Stable Meister, Matt, were nowhere to be found.

He drummed his fingers on the desktop and frowned more deeply. What did their disappearance mean? Was it a coincidence? Unlikely. Were they merely dismayed that their friend had been revealed as a traitor? Possible. Or were they mired hip-deep in blasphemy beside him, and desperate now to save their own wicked lives? Also possible. Maybe even probable.

Which meant King Conroyd was right and this was a conspiracy. It was a horrifying thought, with implications and consequences too dreadful to imagine. Except that he was the Captain of the City and it was his job, his duty, to imagine them.

Chilled, Orrick sat back in his chair and stared out of the window towards the Square. He could just see the top of Asher’s cage over the press of bodies still gathered to marvel and gloat. With the word gone out to all and sundry on his crime and imminent death, the City was as full of visitors now as it had been during the month of mourning for the late royal family. The inns were full again. The hotels too, and all the rustic hostelries.

Death was a booming business these days.

Conspiracy.
How far did its tentacles spread, then? How deeply was its rotten abscess buried within the flesh of Olken society and how much blood would be shed in the attempt to cut it out? Would Asher’s be sufficient? Or must the guards of the kingdom unite to spill blood enough to make a river?

Starting with Dathne’s and Stable Meister Matt’s.

Abruptly sickened Orrick left his office, left the guardhouse, and made his way across the Square to Asher in his cage. The four guards on duty dipped their heads in polite greeting and withdrew as far as they could, to give him privacy.

He addressed the prisoner without preamble. “Your friends Dathne and Matt are missing. If you love them, tell me where they would go so I might bring them in sensibly and ask them myself how they assisted in your crimes.”

Asher’s eyes were dark-rimmed and sunken, and all his wounds had festered. Without bothering to lift his head, or look up at all, he croaked, “Piss off, Pellen.”

Despite the vile stench from the cage, the straw, Asher’s unwashed body, Orrick stepped closer. “If I tell the king I can’t find them he’ll order a reckless search. Innocent people might be hurt or arrested for all the wrong reasons. In the end you know they’ll be found,

Asher. There’s nowhere they can run to or hide where I or someone like me won’t find them. And then it won’t be me and mine asking the questions, it’ll be His Majesty … and you know best how that will go. So tell me where they are. Not for me, or for him. For them.”

Now Asher did stir and look up. “I don’t know where they are and, any road, they were never involved and Jarralt knows it. If he wants them it’s to hurt me, nowt else. Not that you’d care.”

“That’s untrue!”

Asher laughed, a harsh and rasping rattle. “Is it?”

“You think you have cause for complaint?”

Lifting one raw and weeping wrist, jangling the chains that bound him, for the first time Asher looked him full in the face. “Wouldn’t you?”

“You don’t think you deserve this? You don’t think it’s fair? Why not? You were eager enough for justice when it was Timon Spake facing the axe!”

Asher flinched. “Timon Spake was never hurt with magic. You didn’t chain him up like an animal, or put him on show like an animal. For all he was a criminal you treated Timon Spake with decency!”

Orrick clenched his jaw, offended by more than just the stink. “I take my duty seriously, Asher. Your arrest is lawful, your guilt beyond doubt. You
admitted
your crime. However…” He tightened his hands behind his back and lowered his voice. “If the choice were mine, you’d have awaited execution in the guardhouse.”

“Really?” said Asher. “Well, I guess that means we’re friends again, eh?”

He looked away. “We were never friends!”

“I know,” said Asher, softly. “But we might’ve been.”

This was a mistake. Tugging his tunic straight Orrick said briskly, “Reconsider your silence on Dathne and Matt. The longer they stay fugitive the harder I must search for them, and the worse things will be once they’re found. If they’re innocent—”

“Innocent?” said Asher. “There ain’t no
innocent
here, Pellen. Our new King Conroyd’s got the bit between his teeth now. He’s bolting towards turning all us Olken into cattle, and if you can’t see that you’re blinder than I thought. You let him get his hands on Dathne or Matt, it’ll just be the start. Next thing you know, anyone who ever smiled at ‘em will be under suspicion. You wait. It’s all rollin’ downhill from here.”