The Awakened Mage (53 page)

“And if it is?” said Orrick. “Who’s to blame for that? Who was the one caught dabbling with magic?”

Asher slumped into his filthy straw. Frowned at his manacled wrists. “I know.”

“For the love of Barl, Asher, tell me where they are. You might be saving their lives!”

“You are blind,” said Asher, and closed his bloodshot eyes. “Blind and bloody stupid. The best hope they’ve got is if I never mention their names again. So I won’t. Now piss off, why don’t you? I’m a very busy man.”

Rebuffed, nonplussed, grudgingly moved and resentful of that, Orrick stood there for a moment, just staring at him. Then he turned on his heel and went back to the guardhouse.

The new king awaited his report… and he had yet to decide what it would say.

Conroyd’s townhouse was filling with shadows when Morg returned to himself. He felt pain. Confusion. A bizarre disorientation, as though he were trying to be two people at once. For some time he remained on the floor, struggling to piece together what had happened. The memory of Barl’s voice sighed through his pounding head.

He lifted his hands before his eyes and stared. Charred flesh. Blistered meat. Revolted, he healed himself with a word and sat up. Barl’s voice faded, chased away by buzzing Conroyd. He sank inside, retrieved all the melted thinness of himself and banished Conroyd deep within.

And felt… different.

Startled, as he had not been startled in centuries, he examined the difference. What was it? What did it mean? Was he still himself? Or had Barl’s attack damaged him -somehow?

Damn
Barl. Had he loved her? Worshipped her? Wanted to spend eternity with her? He must have been mad.

Subduing the flesh emotion he waited for his startlement to pass. Conjured glimfire and considered himself. His surroundings. His beautiful clothes were smeared and stained—
the Weather Orb!

Crumbled to ash and memory, ground into the carpet beneath him. Almost, almost, he wept.

More time passed. Self-control returned and intellect reasserted itself. Yes, the Orb was destroyed and with it his hope for a swift victory. But at least no other Doranen would have the Weather Magics now, and use them to keep Barl’s golden Wall strong. And when Asher died, the last living Weather Magic would die along with him.

But failure to gain it for himself and bis own ends meant he was still trapped here. Must wait weeks, months, for the magics to fade and the Wall to collapse beneath the weight of its gradual decay. And waiting meant he must somehow keep the other Doranen at bay, his, borrowed body safe, until victory came limping to him.

Assaulted, intellect trembled. It was intolerable.
Intolerable.
He staggered to his feet, healed hands clenched into fists. Opened his mouth to shout aloud his fury, frustration and lingering pain—and gasped.

There was new magic in his mind.

Tentatively, he reached towards it. Brushed his senses against it, feeling it slowly unfurl, and laughed.

Weather Magic.

Not complete. Not all that had been contained in the Orb had passed to him. And what had escaped Barl’s clutches was damaged now by the black flames. But it was Weather Magic all the same. This must be the difference he had felt. This, his longed-for victory.

“See, bitch?” he shouted to the empty room. To her lingering, vanquished memory. “You did not beat me! You have not won!”

He now possessed just enough Weather Magic to let him see into the heart of her precious Wall. To show him its weft and warp and how he might tease its threads undone. Tease at the fabric of her genius, unravel it, and so unravel the world she’d made in defiance of him and the sacred vows they’d sworn to one another.

But not here. For such deep seeing he required the Weather Chamber.

He rode there on the back of peasant Asher’s silver stallion. Like its former master the animal resisted him at first, but not for long.

Nothing and no one could resist him for long.

He traveled the City streets unnoticed, cloaked in a spell of distraction. Entered the palace grounds unremarked by the guards and turned the stallion’s head towards the old palace grounds where Barl’s final monstrosity squatted amongst the trees. The closer he got to the Chamber the more strongly could he smell it. Six centuries dead and her magic continued to hold sway. He hated her,
hated
her, and marveled at her mastery.

Breaking through the trees at last he found himself in a clearing, face to face with the ancient Weather Chamber. Bastion of Barl’s magic and seat of his undoing. Teeth gritted, he dismounted and looped the stallion’s reins over a handy branch. Lathered, pocked with spur marks, the animal drooped its head to the ground, panting and dripping bloody sweat.

After conjuring glimfire he opened the reluctant door and climbed the stairs two at a time, reveling in his athletic ease. The door at the top of the stairs was open. He shoved it wider, stepped into the chamber and was once more soaked with the drenching stench of Barl’s Weather Magic. Faint echoes of her presence stirred like fading, rancid perfume.

He tipped back his head. Stared through the crystal ceiling and into the gold-washed sky. “Do you see me, bitch?” he whispered. “It’s Morgan, dearest. Your husband’s home.”

Unanswered, he turned his attention to the center of the chamber, and the sympathetic model of Lur so skilfully tuned to the fabric of the kingdom. An unfamiliar emotion speared him: regret. The map was a miracle only Barl could manage. Oh, what they might have accomplished if only she’d stayed faithful.

Sinking to the parquetry floor he stretched out his hands above the model. Closed his eyes and opened his mind to the stolen incantations that writhed in his head like golden snakes, letting Barl’s stinking magic suffuse him.

And then, at last, he understood. Everything that until this moment had been opaque was perfectly, beautifully clear. He understood it all…

In this fecund land power flows through all living things, a part of them and indivisible. Not hard and sharp and brilliant like Doranen magic, to be forged into weapons and servitude. Olken magic is soft and slithery, nourishing like blood. Destined to slip through the fingers of any who might think to crudely grasp it. Barl sees this. Accepts this. Comes to realize that her purpose requires a marriage of magics. Night and day she labors to give the union life and so protect her new home forever. In the weather lies the key. She weaves magic like a tapestry, combining Olken and Doranen power into whole cloth. This thread for rainfall, that thread for snow. Here the color of sunshine, there the shadows of wind. The power builds, feeding into the Wall she is creating, flowing from it to the fertile earth and back to the Wall again. It is an endless cycle of give and take, replenish and diminish and replenish once more. An act never-ending, demanding an endless sacrifice. And at its heart lies the WeatherWorker, living conduit of power and pain. The WeatherWorker is the weaver, with the Wall’s separate and delicate skeins threading through fragile fingers of flesh and bone. The WeatherWorker controls the magic, is the magic, weaves the tapestry. Maintains the Wall. Constantly creates and keeps the balance between Olken and Doranen powers. And woe to Barl’s beloved kingdom should the WeatherWorker snap a thread…

Morg opened his eyes, struggling to remember how to breathe. Blinked and blinked and blinked again until the chamber resolved itself into the familiarity of hard lines and solid surfaces. Before him pulsed the map of the kingdom, its beating, vulnerable heart.

Which now he had the means to crush.

With the stolen Weather Magics incomplete he would be forced to move slowly. Torture! After interminable waiting he longed to rip Barl’s Wall to pieces with teeth and taloned fingers. Sink his power into its entrails and gut it like a rabbit. Fall upon the magic-soaked model-map and pound it to splinters with his fists. Grind it to powder beneath his heels.

But no. Confined in flesh, denied access to his untrammelled powers and her complete incantations, he must still bide his time. Pick apart his dear Barl’s tapestry thread by slow and sticky thread. Wait a little longer before being reunited with the best and most of himself, held in limbo on the other side of the Wall.

Morg smiled and soothed himself. Patience … patience … after these six centuries, what were a few weeks more?

By the time the hour came for them to leave the cottage, bent on Dorana and Asher’s rescue, Dathne was almost numb with fatigue and dread. Filled with a churning horror, reminded sickeningly of Timon Spake and the orris root, she’d sat in the kitchen and watched Veira concoct her poisonous potion. Seven different plants were used: drogle, witcheye, lantin, dogsbane and bloodweed she recognized; the other three she’d never seen before and didn’t dare query. One word out of place and she knew Veira would banish her from the room. And this wasn’t something the old woman should do on her own, even if all the help she’d accept was a silent, sympathetic witnessing.

Once the poison was mixed, poured carefully into a small jar, stoppered and wrapped twice against spillage, Veira disposed of the leftover muck and went to walk in the forest again. With Matt still pottering outside and not needing help, he said, Dathne went back indoors, pulled a book from one of Viera’s shelves and curled up in an armchair to read.

But couldn’t. Her hand kept drifting to her belly and her thoughts wouldn’t turn from the miracle—the mistake, whatever Veira said—now growing deep inside her.

A baby
... a
baby
... a
baby…

What was Prophecy
thinking?

What did
she
think?

As Jervale’s Heir she’d never imagined becoming a mother. Not even a wife, given the danger of the life she lived. The last married Heir had died unhappily two hundred years ago, nearly; Dathne had taken that lesson to heart and sworn never to risk herself or her duty in the name of frivolous love.

But then had come Asher… and suddenly love didn’t seem so frivolous. Love, without warning, became as needful as air.

Would he be pleased to discover he’d soon enough be a father? Would she even have the chance to tell him? If this rescue failed, if evil triumphed…

No.
She wouldn’t let doubt touch her. They’d rescue Asher unharmed—Prophecy wouldn’t let it be otherwise. She’d see him again and he would forgive her the lies and the silences and when his task for Prophecy was done they’d settle down and be a family in the brand-new Lur they’d helped create.

Tears prickled, blurring her eyes. She was going to have a
baby.

Outside the cottage, shadows lengthened. Dusk descended. Matt came inside, looking for dinner. She put the book back on its shelf and gave him some carrots to peel. Veira returned with two fresh rabbits already gutted, skinned and jointed. She set them to frying in butter and sage and so night fell upon them.

With dinner eaten and the dishes done, Veira announced they’d depart at midnight, then retired to her bedroom. Matt retired to his. Dathne returned to the sitting room, tried again to read, gave up, and blew out the lantern to sleep a little before they had to leave.

Sleep eluded her. Eyes open or closed, all she could see was that bottle of poison and the look on Veira’s face as she’d stoppered it. Terrible sorrow. Dreadful resolve.

For Asher to be rescued, someone had to die.

The thought was appalling. Haunted her unmercifully so that she gave up the idea of slumber and ventured back to the kitchen instead.

Veira was packing bread and cheese and biscuits into a rough-weave hamper. “There you are, child. I was about to come and rouse you. Matt’s outside, harnessing Bessie.”

“Good,” she said, and looked for a mug. “Is there time for tea?”

There was the slightest hesitation as Veira searched the drawer for a bread knife. “Not for me and Matthias. We must leave in the next quarter-hour.”

She looked up. “And me.”

Straightening, knife in hand, Veira shook her head. “No, Dathne. You’re staying behind.”

“Behind? I don’t think so! Stay here alone while you and Matt run all the risks of rescue?”

“You won’t be alone,” said Veira. “You’ll have the pigs for company. And the hens too. Don’t forget to feed them or they’ll raise a mighty ruckus. Few things as tetchy as pigs and hens if they’re made to go to bed without then supper.”

“Veira!”

“It’s too dangerous, child. You know they’ll be looking for you.”

“And for Matt!” she protested. “But he’s going back, so why can’t I?”

Breathing deeply, Veira tucked the bread knife into the basket. “It’s best if you don’t. I’ve a little trick practiced to keep the guards from spotting Matthias, but I’m not strong enough to play it on both of you.”

“Then show it to me and I’ll play it on myself!”

“No,” said Veira flatly, and kept on packing the basket.

“No?” she echoed, and felt a flooding rage. “I am Jervale’s Heir! You don’t say ‘no’ to
me,
old woman!”

The kitchen’s back door opened, revealing Matt. “Don’t fratch at her, Dathne. If she says you can’t come, accept it.”

She turned on him, venomous. “Not without a damned good reason!”

That earned her a scorching look from Veira. “Because I say so is reason enough! You may be Jervale’s Heir but Prophecy’s brought you here and here is where
I’m
in charge! So hold your tongue if you’ve nothing of use to say with it, and finish off stocking that basket. It’s a long trip back to the City and we’ll have no time for stopping on the way.”

That said, Veira stalked out of the kitchen. Quietly cursing, Dathne did as she was told, flinging biscuits and fruit scones from their tin onto a clean cloth and then into the basket. Lifting hard-boiled eggs from their saucepan on the stove and tossing them in after. Hotly aware of scrutiny she looked up, and met Matt’s understanding gaze.

“Veira’s right,” he said, still standing in the doorway and letting the cold air in. “She’s the Circle Guardian. We must be guided by her, no matter how hard that is.”