The Awakened Mage (63 page)

“Matt
warned—” He struggled to sit up.
“Matt’s
a part of this?”

“We’re all of us a part of it, child,” said Veira from the darkness. “Whether we know it or don’t. What’s coming comes to everyone trapped behind the mountains. And unless we work together, no matter our pride and hurt feelings, the thing that’s coming will kill every last one of us. Is that what you want on your conscience?”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about! I don’t know what you
mean!’’

“Then let me tell you,” said Dathne. “Forget what hurts I’ve done you and just listen to the words. I swear they’re true.”

All the wounded places in his body were awake again, and burning. His head pounded. He wanted to flee but his legs were too weak. He was pinned beneath the blankets, captive. As he’d been captive one way or another all his damned life.

“Have I got a choice?” he said bitterly.

Veira answered him. “Always, child. We can’t compel you to do what’s right.”

No, they bloody couldn’t. They couldn’t compel him to do
anything,
magic or no magic, and woe to them if they bloody well tried. He had a little magic of his own.

As for right and wrong—Dathne had a hide to think she could give him a lecture on
that.
All these secrets … the people in his life he’d trusted, leaned on … and
none
of them what he’d thought they were.

Veira said, quite kindly, “Your pricked pride is the least of our worries, child. Hear Dathne out then tell me we were wrong.”

Pricked pride? Pricked
pride?
He nearly flung the words back in her face, came close to kicking aside the blankets and getting out of there, no matter if it meant crawling on hands and knees… but curiosity won over outrage, just.

“Fine,” he grunted, and folded his arms. “I’m listenin’.”

The Doranen who came over the mountains six centuries ago were nothing like the Doranen he knew today, Dathne told him. Those Doranen were a bright and brittle people, weary and battle-scarred and desperate for peace. Their magic was a thing of violence. With it they called nightmares out of hiding and gave them hfe, gave them teeth to bite and talons to tear. Flattened buildings. Razed whole towns. Slaughtered thousands. They were warriors. And in their eyes were memories of the homeland they’d left behind them. Memories of carnage, and what it had cost them to escape.

Led by a young woman named Barl, they’d fled then war-torn Dorana in terror, crossing countless miles of country burying loved ones as they came. Confronted by the mountains they’d not turned back but instead clawed then way over them and down into Lur. And there found the safe harbor for which they’d long been searching.

They had no intention of giving it up. Of struggling back over the mountains, losing even more of their friends and family on the way, so they might die in the monstrous mage war they’d so narrowly, so dearly, escaped. No matter that this new land wasn’t theirs to take. No matter it already had inhabitants who loved it. They were a race for whom wanting became having without a second thought. And they wanted Lur.

The people they found here called themselves Olken. They were a gentle race with magic of their own, an earthbound power tying them to the land, to green and growing things. To the ebb and flow of natural energies. They lived in loosely allied independent communities scattered from coast to coast, with no central government, no king or queen. They had no hope of defeating the warrior Doranen. No chance of resisting the lure of Doranen magic. It was splendid. Miraculous. There was nothing it couldn’t do. It even let the Olken understand the beautiful invaders, and be understood in return.

Not long after her people’s arrival Barl gathered all the Olken community leaders together and explained about the conflict in her homeland, about Morg, and how defenseless they were against him … how he would not rest till he found her and her people and punished them for fleeing, and then take every Olken as a slave, or worse…

It so happened that in that time the Olken people were suffering. Drought and famine gripped their land and not even then strongest earth-singers could save them. Barl saw their dilemma and made them a glittering offer. Share their homeland with the Doranen—abandon their meager magics and any memory of them—and she would create a paradise safe not only from Morg but from all the natural sufferings their earthbound lives were prey to. The Oiken and Doranen would live together in perfect harmony, perfect peace, safe, secure and prosperous, hidden from the rest of the world beyond the mountains, until the end of time.

Dathne stopped talking. The room was so quiet Asher thought he could hear the spiders breathing. “This ain’t the story my ma told me when I were a spratling.”

She nodded. “It wasn’t. That story was … a lie.”

“But you know the truth?” he sneered. “How, if the Olken agreed to forget it? Or is this just another lie, made up to get you what you want? From me.”

He could see his words hurt her, and was glad. He’d meant them to.

“One Olken voice spoke out against the bargain,” she continued, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Her eyes were bright in the dim lighting. “His name was Jervale and I am his last living heir. Inheritor of his visions and the prophecy they foretold.”

Jervale was known in his own small community as something of a seer. A man whose dreams had the knack of coming true. As a small boy he’d had visions of a golden-haired people who’d bring the Olken to ruin. He didn’t know who they were or when they’d come or what form that ruin would take. Years passed, he grew up, and the visions faded from memory.

Then the Doranen came, and with them returned his foreboding dreams. They told him the heart of the sweet fruit they offered was rotten … and that one day it would lead to his people’s death.

“Jervale tried to warn the Olken elders but they were too Doranen-dazzled to listen,” Dathne said. She sounded sad, regretful. “They didn’t know him, or have reason to trust in his prophecies. In this prophecy, the most important of all. With children dying of hunger and thirst the Doranen were the answer to our prayers, or so it seemed.”

“Seemed?” he said. “Sounds hke they were, if folks were starvin’ to death! Sounds to me like your precious Jervale didn’t give a fart about that?”

“Of course he did! But he could see further than a season’s shortage of food. He knew Barl was right: something dark and dreadful
did
lurk beyond the barrier of mountains. And he knew this, too. That for all their fearsome magic the Doranen would not be able to stand against it. Somehow
Olken
magic would have a part to play in protecting Lur. One day an Olken would be born whose destiny was to save us all in the Final Days. He named him the Innocent Mage.”

He stared at her, unconvinced. “And you reckon that’s me?”

She nodded. “Yes. You are Prophecy’s child, Asher. Born to save the world as Jervale foretold.”

Born to save the world?
Him?
It sounded so ridiculous he was hard-put not to laugh out loud. But he didn’t, because her expression was so serious. Clearly she beheved every word she’d said and right now he was at her mercy. One word in the wrong ear from her or the old woman in the corner and he’d be back on his knees before the chopping block. Besides, there were still things he wanted— needed—to know.

“And what about you?” he said. “How do you come into this, eh?”

She glanced at Veira then rested her gaze on the foot of his bed. “I am Jervale’s Heir, his descendant, inheritor of his visions and knowledge. I’ve dreamed you most of my life, Asher. Knew you for who and what you are long before we met.”

Dreamed him?
Knew
him? Oh, he didn’t hke the sound of that. Didn’t like it at _all. _”And Matt?” He pointed at the old woman, brooding in her corner. “Her? How do
they
fit in with your precious prophecies?”

Now her fingers laced themselves together to still then trembling. And well she should tremble, too. What she’d
done…

“When he realized his warnings would not be heeded, Jervale went home and gathered to him his closest friends,” she said. ‘Those who knew his visions could be trusted and believed his prophecy would come true. Together they swore an oath to hold the Olken’s magical
heritage in sacred trust, generation after generation, until the
Innocent Mage was born and needed Olken magicians to stand with him in the Final Days. Together they devised a way to protect themselves from the Doranen’s purge. They called themselves the Circle. Veira, Matt and I are all of the Circle. There are others, scattered throughout the kingdom, but only Veira knows who they are. Like me they are descended from the Olken of Barl’s time. Like me, they’ve hved their lives with only one purpose: to defeat the evil that will come in the Final Days. That
has
come, Asher. The Final Days are upon us now.”

He shook his head, rejecting her and everything she’d said. Prophecies. Visions. Secret societies of Olken magicians. It was crazy. _Crazy. _”You’re mad,” he said, scathing. “Stark staring moonstruck. You expect me to
believe—”

“You have to believe it!” she cried. “Every word is the truth!”

“The
truth?”
Scalded with sudden fury he kicked back his blankets and lunged off the bed at her, seizing the arms of her chair and prisoning her in it. “You wouldn’t know the truth if it bit you on the arse! You been lyin’ to me since the day I turned up in Dorana!”

Despite his rage, she didn’t shrink back. “No, I haven’t! Withholding information isn’t telling lies. I was
protecting
you, Asher!”

“Protecting me?” he said, incredulous. “From what?”

“From accident! From yourself!”

He leaned even closer, till he could feel her panting breath on his cheeks. “The only danger I been in is from
you. You should’ve found someone to protect me from you, Dathne.”

“That’s not fair!” she cried. “You were
never
in danger from me!”

He flung himself sideways and half rolled, half staggered to his feet. “Of course I bloody was!” He could see it all, now; how she’d duped him, dudded him, played him like a puppet. “You arranged everything, didn’t you? I don’t know how, but you did. Me savin’ Gar’s horse that mornin’ in the market. Him thinkin’ I was right to be his assistant. You practically
dared
me to take the job, when I knew in my guts I shouldn’t! Was it you made him think of me in the first place, one day when you were sellin’ him a book? It was, wasn’t it? For why, Dathne?” He pulled down the neck of his borrowed nightshirt, baring burned flesh to the light. “For
this?”

She stretched out an imploring hand. “No, no, of course not! I never
dreamed
you’d come so close to dying!”

He stepped back. The touch of her now would make him vomit. “I don’t believe you.” A cold thought struck him, then. “How much does Gar know? Are you in bed with him too? Did you dream this up together, you and him, with the sweat of your futtering still wet on your skin?”

Tears streaming, she leapt to her feet.
“No!
How can you say so? How can you
think
it?”

Another thought, colder still. He made himself look in her face.
“Timon Spake.”

Bewildered, smearing those pouring tears, she shook her head. “What?”

“They caught him trying to do magic!” he shouted. “Was he one of yours? Was he part of your precious Circle?”

As Dathne struggled for words—for lies—Veira answered. “He was, child. A good boy, Timon, but foolish.”

He turned on her. “And you didn’t save him? You let him
die!
”

The old woman stood and came forward into the light. “We couldn’t save him. Timon knew that. He died with courage, and will be remembered.”

Courage. That poor sickly boy, and all the blood in him, spilling. He stared at Dathne. “He was never your cousin. That was another he.”

Her stricken gaze flicked to Veira, and back. “Forget Timon. Timon’s dead. We must—”

“Why’d you bully me to let you see him, Dathne? What was so important?”

Veira took a small step closer. “What’s he talking of, child? When did you see Timon?”

“Beforehand. Briefly,” said Dathne. “But that’s in the past. Asher,
listen—”

And now he understood. “You were scared he’d talk out of turn. You thought he’d betray you.” His breath caught hard in his aching throat. “What was in them cakes you took him?”

“Cakes?” said Veira, frowning. “You made no mention of cakes, child.”

“They were nothing,” said Dathne. “Nothing that matters anymore.”

No, they were something. The memory was there in her dark brown eyes. Eyes he thought had looked on him with love. His belly cramped, rejecting. “They were poisoned. Weren’t they?”

“Poisoned?” Veira echoed. “Child, is that true?”

“Damn you, Asher!” cried Dathne, and turned to the old woman. “I’m
sorry,
I
had
to! I couldn’t trust he’d keep the faith and stay silent!”

He was so sickened now he could hardly see straight. “But Spake did. You were wrong about him, Dathne, and you’re wrong about me. I ain’t your Innocent Mage. I’m a fool as was diddled by sweet talk and lies. Yours. Matt’s. Gar’s. Everyone’s.”

“No, no,” said Dathne, breathless. “Please believe me. I love you. We need you. You’re Prophecy’s fulfilment, this kingdom’s only hope!”

She reached out her hand to touch him and he knocked it away. Knocked her sideways as die power inside him drew breath like a dragon and threatened to set him on fire.

“Get away from me, bitch! Get her out of here, old woman, or I won’t be responsible. Get out, get
out!”

The magic ignited. Burst from eyes, mouth and fingers in a roar of burning snow and flaming rain. He let it consume him … didn’t care if it killed him. Or Dathne, or Veira.

Didn’t care about anything.

Sobbing, Dathne let herself be pushed through the cottage and into the kitchen. She heard the door slam shut and felt Veira’s hand press her into a chair.

“We… we … have to go back to him. We have to
stop
him!”