The Awakened Mage (57 page)

But then, nobody with any sense, would show sorrow nere tonight.

He climbed the dais stairs behind Sorvold and followed him to the seat so thoughtfully reserved for him. Right down the front, of course. Beside the elegant, elaborate chair clearly intended for Conroyd. The good and ignorant people of his dead father’s kingdom saw him, and a roar went up that threatened to rattle the stars. ¥

“Gar! Gar! Barl bless our Prince Gar!”

He responded because he had no choice, nodding and waving and pretending he cared, that their wild acclaim meant something and he was glad to be here. Then, as the cheering died down, he took his seat. Breathing deeply, he let his face become a mask. He could feel the speculative glances of those few Doranen lords and ladies who’d decided to attend the entertainment. People who once had begged his attendance at then parties and dances, who’d dreamed of him as a match for their daughters, who now doubtless wished he’d died along with his family: Who found him inconvenient. An embarrassment.

Not one of them spoke to him, or even approached. Which suited him perfectly.

Some minutes later Barlsman Holze arrived, decorated in his most costly clerical robes. The still-jittery glimfire sparked and flashed on the rubies and sapphires sewn into his white brocade tunic. At his heels trailed Willer, swathed in dull green silk. The little man’s air of self-importance bordered on the obscene as he shuffled himself into one of the seats to the rear of the dais, where apparently the Olken belonged. Holze sank into the chair on the other side of Conroyd’s empty imitation throne. Gar glanced down at the Square, and frowned. Holze up here… and no sign at all of a Barlspeaker’s presence amongst the guards. Did this mean Asher was to be denied the consolation of a clerical attendance? No prayers, as there’d been prayers for Timon Spake?

It seemed there was no end to Conroyd’s casual cruelties.

“Your Highness,” Holze said with an almost imperceptible nod.

Gar unclenched his jaw. “Barlsman.”

Behind them a low buzz of voices, as the other attendees distracted themselves with conversation. Holze leaned a little closer. “I hope you’re reconciled to tonight’s event. There can be no suggestion of… ambivalence.”

“You think me ambivalent?” He smiled. “You’re mistaken.”

A new roar from the crowd below killed Holze’s cold-eyed reply.

“The king! The king! Barl brings us the king!”

So Conroyd arrived in a sound-storm of rapture that threatened not only to rattle the stars but rain them down on all then heads. He was the king. He was their savior, the glorious golden Doranen who’d rescued them from a royal house well loved but bled utterly dry of magic. He arrived draped in crimson, dappled with rubies, studded with diamonds. Riding Cygnet, the beautiful silver stallion Asher loved.

For the first time since climbing out of Conroyd’s carriage Gar looked in the cage. Saw Asher, on his knees and staring with eyes gone hollow in a wounded face gone hollower still.

He had to look away.

Overhead the glimfire furiously sparked and sputtered Four balls extinguished themselves entirely and were hastily rekindled by Sorvold and Daltrie, still in attendance on the ground. All the while Conroyd sat on the fretting silver stallion and waved, laughing, drinking the applause avidly, gluttonously, as though too much could never be enough.

Just as Gar thought he must be sick, Conroyd dismounted and tossed his reins to a waiting Olken servant Lightly leapt up the stairs to the top of the dais and stood before his empty chair. Not once did he acknowledge his “former king’s existence.

“Good people!” he cried, and the crowd fell silent “Your love moves me to tears!” Mellifluous, musical, his glorious voice bathed them all in beauty. “Midnight approaches. Justice awaits. Let it be done, and let all gathered here bear witness to Barl’s mercy and might! Captain Orrick!”

Pellen Orrick appeared before him and bowed. “Your Majesty.”

“It is time, Captain. Do your duty!”

The crowd shouted, drumming its heels to show approval. On the dais behind Gar no such vulgar display; but the mood of self-satisfaction swelled. He watched, sickened, as Orrick walked with slow deliberation across the Square to the cage holding Asher. In one hand he held a large key.

To distract himself Gar turned to Conroyd, seated now, and said softly, “It was supposed to rain here today. Did you forget?”

Conroyd smiled, his attention on Orrick. “Be silent.”

“Or haven’t you even taken the Weather Magic yet? Conroyd, you mustn’t delay. The people depend—”

“Be silent,” said Conroyd, “or lose your tongue.”

He flinched. Was it his imagination playing tricks or was there something wrong with Conroyd? Something different about him. His eyes? The way his skin stretched over his face? There was something

... and it made his skin crawl.

Three more balls of glimfire expired and one exploded. Before Sorvold or Daltrie could act, Conroyd replaced them with a wave of his hand. Nodded to Orrick, who unlocked the cage and handled Asher ungently into the Square. Asher moved slowly, painfully, his chains clanking in the sudden hush. He looked up and as their eyes met Gar felt his heart seize. Freeze.

Darran had
lied.
There was no forgiveness in Asher’s thinned and bloodless face. No understanding or acceptance. Only hate and hate and hate.

Damn
Darran. Damn Asher, too. And Conroyd. The crowd. Above all damn himself. He’d wanted so much to believe in Asher’s absolution, he’d deafened himself to the small voice within whispering
what you do is unforgiveable.
Had allowed himself to be deceived… because deception was so alluring, and so desperately desired.

And now was dead. As Asher would soon be dead. ~

Orrick escorted his shuffling prisoner to the block. Steadied Asher before it and impersonally helped him to kneel. His kneeling broke the taut silence; the crowd shouted. Cheered. Drummed their heels again, ecstatic. Some of them sat so close to the block they were in danger, surely, of being soaked in spraying blood. Of having their clothing ruined. Did they realize? Did they care? Or was it deliberate? An attempt to gain some kind of revolting keepsake?

Remembering the horror of Timon Spake’s beheading, Gar couldn’t comprehend this lust for blood and death. These Olken who howled for Asher’s murder were the same men and women who, scant weeks ago, had fought to call him friend. To buy him ale. To boast to their cronies:
“As I said to Asher himself, just the other day…”

A touch to one shoulder, and Asher put his head on the block. Gar wanted to close his eyes but couldn’t. He owed his friend this much, not to close his eyes.

With his hands and ankles chained Asher couldn’t keep his balance. He kept slipping sideways off the block; a final obscenity. Orrick looked up and Conroyd nodded. The chains were removed. Asher once more lowered his head and Orrick stepped back, well out of the way. The executioner came forward. Raised his axe. A gasp of indrawn breath ran round and through the waiting crowd—

—and all the glimfire went out.

Plunging darkness. Screams. Confusion. Conroyd, swearing. One minute passed, and then one more. A ball of glimfire bloomed. Another. Then another. Light returned, revealing Asher still kneeling at the block, passively awaiting death.

“Kill him!”
screamed Conroyd, leaping to his feet.
“Kill him now!”

The axe fell. Blood sprayed. The crowd shrieked. A ball of glimfire directly overhead erupted into shooting flame and sank, igniting the bloody straw and Asher’s sundered body. Panic, as those closest to the carnage tried to get away. Some of them were on fire. Panic spread and the crowd stampeded.

Forgotten, held fast in some kind of frozen stillness, Gar watched as chaos held sway. Orrick and his guards tried and failed to maintain order. Barlsman Holze shouted prayers and pleas for sanity. Conroyd’s guests tumbled pell-mell off the dais, in fear for their lives. Willer was squealing.

Gar couldn’t help it; he laughed out loud.

Conroyd turned on him, his altered face livid. The glimfire’s dying flames reflected in his eyes. “Is this
your
doing, eunuch?
Is it?”

Despite his danger, he smiled. “Mine? How could it be? I’m a cripple, remember? Perhaps it’s Barl, expressing her displeasure.”

Conroyd struck him so hard that a ruby ring opened the flesh along his cheekbone. “If I find this is you, runt, your pain will
last forever!”

Blood was pouring down his face. He groped for the kerchief Darran insisted he carry and pressed it to the wound. “Are you mad, Conroyd? To assault me in
public!”

There was madness, or something worse, seething beneath the surface of Conroyd’s chalk-white face. “With me!” he grunted. “Now!”

His arm bruised in an inescapable grip, Gar found himself dragged from his seat, from the dais, down the stairs and into the Square where the stench of charred straw, blood and human flesh was hideous. He gagged. Retched. Brought up all his swallowed icewine in a frothy puddle at Conroyd’s feet.

Conroyd threw him to his knees in the middle of it. “Look there!” he commanded. “You know him better than any man alive. Is that him? Tell me if it’s him! And if you lie I’ll see it and no mercy known shall save you!”

The body and its head had caught almost the full brunt of the flaming glimfire. The face was blistered, bubbled, oozing thick boiled blood, but it was Asher’s. The rest of the torso and its limbs were roasted, its clothes burned almost away. Only one small section of flesh was left seared but unblackened: the right arm, from shoulder to inches above the wrist. In falling, the body had sheltered it from the worst of the flames.

Gar stared at the smooth, unscarred length of limb. Looked again at that terrible face, still recognizable, and then again at the unscarred arm.

Like immortality, this was impossible.

“Is it Asher?”
said Conroyd.

Churned with confusion, with the beginnings of a hope too great to admit, Gar pressed his hands to his face and let a sob burst from his throat. “Damn you, Conroyd. Of course it is. He’s dead. You’ve killed him.”

Cruel fingers tangled in his hair, dragging his head backwards to break-neck position. “You swear it?” said Conroyd, his terrible eyes on fire. “On pain of every punishment I’ve ever promised, and many more besides?”

His slashed cheek was burrning. “Yes, yes, I swear it!” he said. “Look at his face! See for yourself! It’s Asher!”

Conroyd looked. “Yes,” he said at last, in almost a whisper. “It is him. I’ve won. My exile at last is ending!” His grasping fingers loosened and he backed a pace away.

Gar climbed unsteadily to his feet, certain of one thing only: that
none
of this made sense. He stared at Conroyd, who for all his familiar cruelty yet seemed subtly unlike himself. And even as he watched, something rippled across that hated face, some alchemical change that suggested, for a single impossible moment, that he was looking not at one man but two.

As Gar opened bis mouth to shout, Pellen Orrick came running to join them, his uniform torn and filthy. “Your Majesty! Your Majesty, forgive the interruption. Asher’s friend—Stable Meister Matt! He’s taken.”

Stunned shock congealed into pain. “Let him go, Conroyd!” he said. “Asher’s dead now. It’s over. Please, let him go.”

Conroyd turned on him, wholly himself again. “Get back to your Tower and stay there, runt! I’ll know if you’re straying and you won’t like my wrath!”

Matt.
Matt.
Anguished, despairing, Gar turned away without looking again at the burned body at his feet. The Square was almost emptied now, the dais entirely deserted. The carriage that had brought him here was waiting a little distance away, the golden crown on the falcon’s head flashing in the guttering glimfire. He climbed inside and let it take him home through the thronged and noisy streets. His wounded cheek throbbed, unmerciful.

True to his word, of course, Darran was waiting up for him. Took one look at his cut and bloodstained face and cried out in alarm. “Sir! Sir, what’s happened? You’re
injured!”

Either he needed to get properly drunk, right now, or he should never touch icewine again. Ignoring Darran’s outstretched hand, his peppering of incoherently anxious questions, Gar paced around the foyer floor. Struggled to make sense of events that were incredibly senseless. Totally impossible. He was brought up short by Darran, who abandoned a lifetime of protocol, grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to a halt.

“Sir! Sir, you’re
frightening
me!”

Shocked, Gar looked at the old man. Saw that yes indeed, his secretary—his friend—was frightened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

Appalled at himself, Darran unclutched his fingers and stepped back. “Please, sir. I understand how you feel. What’s happened is a tragedy. But it’s not your fault and you mustn’t go on blaming yourself. Asher’s death—”

Gar held up a silencing finger. Leaned close. Whispered, “Asher’s not dead.”

From the look on the old man’s face it was clear Darran thought he’d lost his mind. “Oh, sir. Please. Let me take you upstairs. Help you lie down and find medicine for your wound. You’ve had a terrible shock and—”

He seized Darran’s black-clad shoulders and shook him.
“Listen
to me. Asher’s not dead. Someone is. Someone died tonight, cruelly and bloodily. But that someone
wasn’t Asher.”

Dumbly, Darran stared at him. “Wasn’t Asher?” he said at last. “How can you be—”

Shuddering, he saw again that burned and blackened body. Smelled the wrenching stink of fresh-cooked flesh. “A missing scar. You’ve seen it—on his right arm. An injury he got as a boy. The man killed tonight didn’t have it. He wasn’t Asher.”

“Then who—”

“I have no idea,” he said, and let Darran go. Began pacing again, his head pounding with thoughts and ideas and pain. “But it can only mean one thing. Asher was rescued.”

“Rescued?
Oh, sir, I mean no disrespect but—”

He spun about. “Mart’s arrested. He was there, Darran. He was involved somehow. I
know
it.”