The Awakened Mage (59 page)

Matt blinked his swollen, blood-crusted eyes. “I don’t know anything.”

“For your sake I hope not. I warn you, Matt, since you’re a man who to the best of my knowledge has done no harm: our new king is ruthless in the pursuit of justice. He’ll use magic to tear the truth from you, just as he used it on Asher.”

“Magic?” said Matt, and sat up, wincing. “But that’s forbidden. You’re the Captain of the City, how could you sanction—”

“Captains don’t sanction,” he replied. “Or object.” Not when a king commands. Even when then conscience pricked them. Even though they had grave doubts. And was that duty or cowardice speaking? An uncomfortable question he wasn’t sure how to answer. “Tell him what you know, Matt. Put an end to all this misery.”

“I told you,” said Matt, and closed his eyes. “I don’t know anything.”

Well, if the stable meister was telling the truth surely he had nothing to fear, magic or no magic. And if the man was lying the king would soon dig the truth free. Either way, it was out of his hands. He was weary, and hungry, and needed an hour or three at home.

The guardhouse was empty, save for Bunder on front-desk duty and young Jesip filling out reports. All the other lads, on active duty or recalled for special circumstances, were out patrolling the City, maintaining order after last night’s tumult and hastening all the sightseers back to their homes, either in Dorana or beyond it. He sent Jesip out back to keep a close eye on their prisoner and paused for a word with stolid Ox.

“I’m off home for a bit. Stay alert and send for me if there’s fresh trouble.”

Letting himself out through the guardsmen’s entrance he saw that the day promised fair, with flushes of pink on the rim of the horizon. Smothering a yawn, he turned for the small gate leading into the alley … and was accosted from the shadows alongside the guardhouse building.

“Captain Orrick! Captain Orrick, a word!”

He knew that whispering voice. It was the prince’s secretary. Darran. A good man, if a witterer. “Sir?” Orrick said, approaching. “Is something wrong? Come out into the light where I can see you.”

The old man didn’t move. “Captain Orrick, do you love this kingdom?”

And what kind of a question was that? He scowled, feeling fratched and fractious. “Meister Secretary, it’s been a long night and I’m in no mood for games. State your business or be on your way. It’s a grave offense to loiter on guardhouse property.”

The old man inched forward until just his face was visible. His gaze darted left and right, seeking eavesdroppers. “Captain, we must speak in private. Will you come?”

“Come where? And why? What do you want to speak of?”

Darran eased a little further forward. He looked exhausted. Terrified. “I can’t say, Captain. Not here. Please, I beg you. Come. In the name of our beloved King Borne.”

That name stilled his tongue. He looked more closely at Darran. Recognized honesty, and desperation. “I was on my way home,” he grumbled. “I’ve been on duty now a good long time, sir.”

“I know that,” said Darran. “I’d not ask if it weren’t important.”

He sighed. “How important?”

“A matter of life or death,” the old man said. “For all of us.” He held out a bundled cloak. “Wear this. Pull the hood low over your face. We don’t want you recognized.”

Orrick took the cloak and shrugged it on as the old man settled the hood of his own cloak over his graying head. “If this is not urgent but a trick or, worse still, some lawless skullduggery …”

“Come with me, Captain,” said Darran, “and see for yourself.”

Groaning, sighing, Orrick went with him.

He wasn’t surprised to find he’d been taken to meet with Prince Gar. The choice of meeting place was more unexpected: House Torvig’s family crypt. Chilly, and filled full of candles. And bodies.

The prince looked sleepless. High-strung and backed against an invisible wall. The cut on his cheekbone was scabbed over, the flesh around it bruised and puffy. “Thank you for coming, Captain. Pellen. May I call you Pellen?”

Orrick nodded. “Of course.”

“Pellen, I need your help. Lur needs your help. Can we count on you?”

His spine snapped straight. “I am an officer of the crown. My loyalty has never been questioned.” Well. Not reasonably anyway. Or more than once.

The prince smiled. There was something ghastly in his eyes. He stood beside his dead sister’s coffin, his fingers caressing her—
the effigy’s—
cold stone foot. “I know that,” he said. “But you’re also an officer who’s never been asked to face what we are facing. To accept what will sound to you like the ravings of a madman.”

Careful… careful… Orrick moistened dry lips. Glanced once at the old man who’d brought him here, standing now in the corner, then settled his attention on the prince. “And what is it we’re facing, Your Highness?”

“I believe—the destruction of our kingdom.”

Well, yes, that did sound like the ravings of a madman. And he was so damned _tired. _”Sir, you’ll need to speak more plainly. You
believe
that we’re in danger? From whom? From what? And where is your proof?”

“So speaks the City guardsman.” The prince shook his head. “I’m not sure you’d call it proof, Pellen.”

Orrick glanced again at Darran. The old man’s eyes didn’t leave the prince’s face. From his expression he at least believed what Gar was saying. Or did he just want to believe it? Hard to say.

Looking back at the prince, he thought for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “Your Highness, have you told the king of your concern?”

The question provoked a harsh, choked-off bark of laughter. “Pellen, dear Pellen. Conroyd is my concern!”

“You’re talking treason. I can’t hear this,” he snapped, and burned Darran with a look. “You shouldn’t have brought me here, old man. If you love your prince, take him away. Now. And I’ll do my best to forget the three of us ever spoke.”

Spinning on his heel, chaotic with regret and sorrow and fury, he headed for the door.

The prince said harshly, “I lied about Asher.”

He stopped. Listened to his thudding, hammering heart.
“Lied,
sir?”

Footsteps behind him. A gentle hand touching, tugging him round. The prince’s face was stark. No royal mask, no polished public presentation. Raw emotion only, with everything laid bare. He flinched.

“What he told you was true. All of it,” the prince said, as softly as though they were in chapel. “I asked him to do magic.”

His reply was automatic. “Olken have no magic.”

The prince smiled sadly. “Asher does. Did. I can’t explain it, but it’s true. And he used it to protect this kingdom. When my own powers failed I gave him the Weather Magics myself, willingly. He never conspired to steal my crown. He was the truest subject a king could ever have.

The truest friend. In every way that matters, Asher was innocent.”

All his life a guardsman. He’d learned—thought he’d learned—to tell when truth was spoken. “But you renounced him!” he said, incredulous. “You signed the execution order yourself!”

The prince nodded. “I had to. Even though I’d sworn to protect him, I had to sign his death warrant. If I refused, Conroyd said he’d slaughter your people. I believed him.”

Could a living man be turned to stone? It felt like it. He swallowed, struggling against the pain in his throat, his chest. “He was
innocent?
But I
killed
him!”

“No, Pellen,” the prince said. “The law killed him.”

“It’s the same thing!”

The prince looked to Darran, then. As though he were seeking advice… or absolution. The old man shrugged. “I think you must, sir. We’ve come too far not to.”

The prince sighed. “You’re no murderer, Pellen. Asher isn’t dead. The man who lost his life last night was unknown to me. Asher lives, somewhere, and if we’re to save our kingdom from destruction you have to help me find him.”

Orrick felt his legs give way. He stumbled sideways, fending off the hands stretched out to help him. Fetching up against a cold brick wall he pressed a hand across his face and fought to catch his ragged breath.

“This is madness,” he muttered. “The rotten fruit of overwork. I must be dreaming.” He lowered his sheltering hand and looked at the prince. “Tell me I’m dreaming!”

“If you are, Pellen, it’s a nightmare. And the rest of us are snared in it with you.” The prince reached inside his buttoned coat and pulled out a battered, leather-bound journal. It looked ancient. “This is Blessed Barl’s diary. Durm discovered it and hid its existence. It contains our long-lost magics … and an incantation that opens a window in the Wall.”

“A
window?
Your Highness—”

“I know,” the prince said quickly. “I know how this sounds, but please, bear with me. I believe Durm used this spell.” His face twisted with bitterness and regret. “He was always a curious man. And an arrogant one. Convinced he was never in danger, no matter the risks he took.”

Orrick stepped away from the wall and clasped his hands behind his back. Buried beneath confusion and bewilderment there was shame, that he’d let himself be so undisciplined as to show such open dismay. “Very well. A window. But what has that to do with Asher? With anything?”

The prince slipped the journal back inside his coat. “Everything. When Durm opened that window in the Wall, I think something climbed through it after him and is here with us now, bent on malevolent destruction. I think it killed my family and wants to kill us all. That’s why I have to find Asher. He’s the only one with magic I can trust to fight against it.”

“Against
what,
sir? Nobody knows what lies beyond the Wall! Nobody knows who lives there!”

“We know who used to live there.”

It took Orrick a moment to work out the prince’s meaning. When he did, he almost fell down. “Morg? Sir, you are raving!”

Gar shook his head. “I wish I was. Pellen, Morg knew how to make himself immortal. Understand: he was a magician with powers we can’t begin to comprehend. The Doranen of Lur are mere
shadows
compared to our ancestors, and what they could do. Did do. It’s all in the diary and I tell you, it’s terrifying.”

Was madness contagious? He was starring to believe the prince… “If you’re right—if Morg really is among us—how is it nobody’s noticed?”

“Because he’s clever. He’s hiding.”

“Hiding where?”

The prince’s gaze dropped for a moment. He took a deep breath. Let it out. Looked up and answered. “Inside Conroyd Jarralt.”

Orrick turned away, one fist pressed to his aching chest. Barl save him … Barl save him… but he believed it Last night. In all the mayhem. He’d seen King Conroyd’s face as he demanded Asher’s beheading. Seen him afterwards, gloating over the body. Something inhuman and unnatural lurked there, deep inside his bones.

The prince said softly, “I’m the last living member of House Torvig, Pellen. For hundreds of years my family has shed its blood for the keeping of this kingdom. By all that’s holy, in this sacred house of rest, before countless generations of my witnessing family, I swear, I
swear
I’ve told you nothing but the truth.
Please.
Will you help me?”

Orrick stared at the ground. Time stopped, hanging on his answer.

He looked up.

“Yes, Gar. I’ll help you. And if it proves we’re wrong may Barl have mercy on our souls.”

Ox Bunder looked up in surprise as Orrick walked back into the guardhouse. “Captain? Something wrong?”

Only everything. Still reeling from the prince’s revelations, from his own mad decision to follow him blindly, break the
law, free a prisoner,
he called upon his twenty-eight years of guarding experience and showed the man nothing but a sheepish smile.

“I tried to sleep but all my leftover paperwork kept tapping me on the shoulder,” he said. “You know how I am.

Ox grinned. “Yes, sir, I do.”

“No trouble from the prisoner?”

“No, Captain.”

“Jesip’s still with him?”

“Er…” Bunder looked discomfited. “No. You know his mother’s poorly? He just wanted to see if she’d spent the night all right. I didn’t see the harm, sir, he’s been on duty for nearly two days. I checked the prisoner myself not ten minutes ago and he was out to the world, snoring.”

“I see. Well, I suppose that’s all right.” He headed for the rear door leading to the cells. His heart was pounding so hard he was amazed Bunder couldn’t hear it. “But I’ll have a quick look at him myself before I go upstairs. Carry on, Ox.”

Praise Barl, the guardhouse’s other prison cells were empty, all impulse to petty criminalities swallowed by the enormous events of the past few weeks. He hurried along the cell-lined corridor to the room at the end where Asher had been briefly held. Where Matt now waited in equal danger. He opened the outer double-locked door—

—and found the prisoner trying to hang himself with the torn-off sleeve of his shirt.

“No, damn you!
No!”

With shaking hands he fumbled the keys from his belt, jammed the right one in the lock and wrenched the cell door wide open. The stable meister was on his knees, swaying at the end of his improvised noose, wheezing, choking, his battered face suffused with blood and turning purple.

Orrick lunged at him. Tore frantically at the knot around his neck but had no hope of loosening it. Instead he got his shoulder under the man’s heaving chest and bellowed for Bunder.

“Get me a knife!” he ordered as Ox skidded into the outer cell. Gaping, Ox bolted out again and returned moments later with a dagger. Together they freed the strangling prisoner.

“Captain, captain …” Bunder stammered, horrified.

“Never mind that now, Bunder—we’ll talk about discipline later!” he growled, watching Matt’s face fade from purple to red. His mind raced, seeking a way to turn this near-disaster into success. It wasn’t easy. He was the Captain of the City; he spent his time putting people
into
prison, not thinking of ways to help them
escape.

“This man should have a pother,” he said at last.

“There’s a pothery two streets over,” said Bunder, eager to make amends. “I’ll—”