The Awakened Mage (8 page)

“That’s good. Ain’t it?”

Another shrug. “That depends. People like explanations for things, Asher. That’s their nature.”

“I s’pose. Nix is lookin’ at the bodies now, you say?”

“Nix and Holze.”

“And they really can tell if there’s been magic used?”

“Holze says so,” said Orrick. He was silent a moment, inspecting the nearby treetops. Looking for crimes? Probably. The law was Pellen Orrick’s bread and butter and blankets. “He kept vigil all night. He’s a good man. A holy man. If we can’t trust his findings, and Nix’s, we’re all in trouble.”

“D’you reckon they will find anythin’?”

“No,” said Orrick, grimacing. “Borne was a great king. Revered by everyone. The queen was loved. Princess Fane respected, and accepted by all as the WeatherWorker in Waiting. There’s not a soul in Lur who’d want them dead.”

Asher looked at him sidelong. “Gar might.”

“What?”

“Don’t tell me you ain’t considered the idea, Captain. Gar’s got his magic now. Might be he decided he’d make a better WeatherWorker than his sister and didn’t want all the folderol and kerfuffle of a schism over the matter.”

Pellen Orrick fell back a pace and stared at him, his expression a mixture of disbelief and horror. “Asher, are you serious? Do you truly want me to consider His Highness responsible for this tragedy? Is it what
you
believe? Don’t forget, it’s only by Barl’s grace that he and the Master Magician survived!”

“Could be it was planned that way.”

Orrick seized his arm. “Asher, I charge you straight: if you have any proof or knowledge that this was no accident, you cannot stay silent.
Was
it deliberate murder? Tell me!”

Pulling free, he said, “I ain’t got the first idea, Captain.

I don’t reckon so. But even if it was, there’s no way Gar were involved.”

“Not
involved?” Orrick glared. “Then why in Barl’s blessed name would you—”

“Because I can think of at least one man who’ll say it’s possible!” he said. “Maybe even likely. Can’t you?”

Some of the angry color faded from Orrick’s face. His eyes narrowed and he folded his arms across his chest. “Lord Jarralt.”

“Exactly. And you need to be ready for him, Captain. He’ll stir up trouble if he can. Claim the kingdom needs a seasoned magician as WeatherWorker. And without Durm to stand behind Gar as the heir, things could get real nasty real fast.”

“What do you mean, without Durm? I’d not heard the Master Magician was dead.”

“He ain’t. Not yet, any road. But between you and me and the anchor, it ain’t lookin’ good. And Durm dead’d suit Conroyd bloody Jarralt right down to the ground. So I’m just sayin’, Captain. Keep your eye on him. Don’t let him bully you into makin’ a findin’ that suits him more than you or the kingdom.”

Now the faintest of smiles was curving Orrick’s thin lips. “For a fisherman, Asher, you display a remarkable grasp of politics.”

“Aye, well, I’m a fast learner,” he said, scowling.

“Speaking of His Highness,” said Orrick after an appreciative pause, “how is he this morning?”

He shrugged. “Fine.” Orrick’s eyebrows lifted. With an effort, silently cursing the Guard captain’s instincts, he smoothed his tone. “Grievin’, of course. Looks a bit the worse for wear, which is only to be expected. But he’s fine.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Pellen Orrick. “Because the kingdom needs stability, Asher. There’s nothing a man in my line of work likes less than a lack of stability. It tends to make people … frisky.”

From inside the Tower came a loud lamentation, voices male and female raised in disbelieving shock and pain. Daniyal, still holding Orrick’s horse at a discreet distance, looked around, alarmed.

Asher winced, then sighed. “He’s told ‘em. Now we’re in for it.”

Orrick clasped his shoulder briefly. “I must get to the palace. With luck Holze and Nix will know by now if there was magical foul play. Will you tell His Highness the bo— his family is safely retrieved?”

Asher nodded. “Aye.”

“He’ll want to see them, of course. Tell him that provided Holze and Nix have finished their examinations, I have no objection.” Orrick frowned. “I hope Nix thinks to… put them to rights. His Highness shouldn’t have to see them … like that.”

“No,” he said after a moment. “He shouldn’t.”

“Good morning then,” said Orrick. He collected his horse, mounted neatly, economically, and trotted away.

Daniyal came slowly up the Tower steps, looking to Asher for instructions.

“Go inside,” Asher told him. “The prince has news for you.”

Daniyal ran. Asher stayed on the Tower steps, letting the sunshine soak into his bones. Willing it to melt the shards of ice still chilling him to the marrow. Familiar footsteps sounded behind him and he turned.

“So. That’s done,” Gar said grimly. Dressed head to toe in unrelieved black, his hair had been confined in a tight plait. Black ribbon was threaded through the braiding. “What did Orrick want?”

Asher told him. Gar took the news in silence.

“You goin’ along to the palace now?” said Asher.

“Once I’ve eaten. You’ll join me?”

“S’pose,” he said, shrugging.

Gar’s icy expression fractured, revealed a churning of emotion. “I’ve said I’m sorry. I’ve sworn it won’t happen again. What else do you want from me?”

What he wanted, Gar couldn’t give him. Nobody could. The dead were dead and couldn’t be brought back to life, nor an unfamiliar world made trustworthy once more. Gar was staring at him. Angry. Fearful. Uncertain. He shook his head. Smiled, just a little. “Griddle cakes, berry syrup and hot buttered toast.”

Gar’s face flooded with relief. “I think I can manage that. Come on. We’ll eat in the solar, quickly, and then go to the palace. There’s a lot to be done today.”

Aye, there was. And none of it pleasant. In silence, he followed Gar back into the Tower, where the housemaids were weeping and even Willer’s tongue was stilled.

One of Nix’s myriad assistants came forward to greet Gar and Asher as they entered the Royal Infirmary’s reception room. She bowed low then clasped her hands behind her back. The green badges on her collar, denoting her status as a fifth-year apprentice, winked in the bright glimlight.

“Your Highness.” Her voice was calm, her face smooth, polite, but there was a horrified sympathy deep in her eyes. “I’ll tell Pother Nix you’re here.”

She withdrew, and some moments later Nix joined them. He looked exhausted; Asher realized that the sagging, wrinkled blue robe he wore this morning was the same one he’d worn last night.

“Your Highness,” said the pother, and offered a perfunctory bow. “How are you this morning?”

“Well enough,” said Gar. “How is Durm?”

“Still with us, sir. His will is extraordinary. I think any other man would have succumbed to his injuries by now.”

Some of the tension eased from Gar’s face. “Not if he had you as his pother. May I see him?”

“Perhaps later. To be truthful, there was some agitation during the night. We’ve got him quiet again, well dosed with calming herbs. I wouldn’t like to see our good work fly out the window quite so soon.”

“Agitation? Do you mean—”

“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” Nix said, and pressed a hand to Gar’s arm. “No sign of awareness, as such. Just an excitation of the nerves. It’s to be expected, with this kind of injury.”

“I see,” said Gar, and cleared his throat. “Well, you know best, Nix. And you have my complete confidence.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll do my utmost to ensure it’s not misplaced.”

Gar nodded, and banished the last betraying emotion. “So. If I can’t see my Master Magician, can I at least pay a visit to my secretary?”

“Certainly you may,” said Nix, and smiled his relief. “Indeed, you’ll make the old gentleman’s morning.”

“He is well?”

“Well enough to leave us soon, I believe. If you’d care to follow me?”

As Nix moved towards a nearby corridor, Asher touched Gar’s elbow. “I don’t need to see Darran too, do I? Like as not one look at my face’ll drive the ole crow straight into a relapse and Nix’ll have my guts for garters. Why don’t I just go and—”

“No,” said Gar. “I’ve got something important to say to both of you, and I want you in the same room when I say it. Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from Nix. Now come along. We don’t want to keep the good pother waiting.”

Swallowing a groan, Asher fell into step.

Darran had been removed to a small private chamber a short walk from the reception area. Propped up in bed and looking ridiculous in a pale pink nightgown, when he saw the prince the faint color in his cheeks faded altogether.

“Oh, sir! Sir!” he cried, struggling to throw back his blankets.

As Nix withdrew, closing the chamber door behind him, Asher propped himself against the wall and Gar moved to the bedside. “Lie still, old friend. Nix tells me you’re doing well and might even escape confinement later today—provided you do nothing foolish.”

“I fancy I’ve been foolish enough already,” murmured Darran, sinking back against his pillows. One thin veined hand stole out, fingers brushing against Gar’s black silk sleeve. His expression was beseeching. “Oh, sir. Dear sir. Tell me it isn’t true. Tell me your ruffian friend there has played a cruel trick on me. It would be like him, after all. Tell me anything … except that they’re dead.”

Gar shook his head. “I wish I could. I’m sorry.”

Darran burst into gulping, gasping tears. Gar sank to the edge of the bed beside him and opened his arms. Clutching, coughing, Darran continued to weep, his face buried against Gar’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry—I’m so sorry—”

Gar patted his back, stroked his hair. “I know, Darran. I know.”

Skewered with pity, Asher looked away. He had no time for scarecrow Darran but even so … the ole fool’s grief was genuine. Was a knife, opening half-healed wounds.
Red blood and white bone and black flies, crawling… a friend, addled and drooling … a tired old man broken by a mast, alone and abandoned and calling his name …

Imagination lashed him like a whip. Smarting, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets and set his jaw. He wasn’t going to cry, he wasn’t, he
wasn’t.
Tears were nothing but a waste of good saltwater.

At last the old man stopped his ragged weeping. Stared into Gar’s tearless face and whispered, “Oh, sir. Sir. What are we going to do?”

“What we must, Darran. Go on without them.”

“Without them?” Darran echoed. Fresh tears spilled. “Dear sir… I’m afraid I don’t know how.”

Gar reached into his tunic, withdrew a black handkerchief and held it out. Speechless, Darran blotted his sallow cheeks dry and let the damp crumpled silk fall to his lap.

“In truth, Darran, neither do I,” Gar said. “But there must be a way. And if there isn’t, we’ll have to make one. The kingdom needs me, and I need you. More than I ever have before. Can I count on you?”

“Sir!” said Darran. “As if you need to ask!”

Gar smiled and patted his hand. “I don’t want to take you for granted. Darran, I have a huge favor to beg of you. One that will tax your loyalty and endurance to their very limits, I fear. But I wouldn’t ask such a sacrifice of you if I didn’t think it was important. Will you hear me out? Please?”

The old man flushed faintly pink, like a maiden at her first Festival dance. “Well, of course, sir. You must know there’s nothing I won’t do for you.”

Asher rolled his eyes. Silly ole fool…

“Thank you, Darran,” said Gar. His pale face was settling into new and unaccustomed lines. He looked years older now, and grim. “Asher?”

Suspicious, he took a reluctant step towards the bed. “Aye?”

“I know there’s scant love lost between you two,” Gar began carefully. “That you take great delight in puncturing each other’s consequence, as often and as publicly as possible. There is fault and provocation on both sides, though I think you’d rather die before admitting it. But I also know you both love me, and I hope you know that love is returned, as for a crusty old uncle, say, and an irascible brother.”

Asher raised an eyebrow. “We s’posed to guess which one of us is which?”

“Hold your tongue, you impertinent guttersnipe!” snapped Darran. “His Highness is speaking!”

“Please!”
said Gar, glaring.

Instantly contrite, Darran lowered his head. “Your Highness.”

“Sorry,” Asher muttered.

Darran snorted.
“That
was convincing.”

“Barl save me!” cried Gar. Overhead, the air beneath the chamber ceiling thickened. Darkened. A flickering tongue of lightning licked the underbelly of the looming cloud and the chamber’s glimfire lamps sparked and sputtered. “Must I find bandages to stuff in your chattering mouths?
Listen
to me! This kingdom faces its gravest crisis since Trevoyle’s Schism. I face the darkest, most demanding days of my life, and I’d rather not face them alone.”

“You are not alone, sir,” said Darran, offended. “You have me, for as long as there’s breath in my body.”

“I know, but it’s not enough!” Gar slid off the bed and began to pace the small chamber. “Don’t you understand? I need
both
of you! I’ve always lived a public life, but this will be different. As WeatherWorker I will be scrutinized as never before. I may be my father’s legitimate heir but my journey has been, to say the least, unorthodox. With every eye upon me I can’t afford the slightest stumble. For if I fall, not one Doranen hand will reach out to help me to my feet. Instead they’ll clutch the sleeve of Conroyd Jarralt, the only other magician we have who’s capable of wielding Weather Magic. It is the last thing my father would’ve wanted. I
can’t
let Conroyd win! If he wins—”

“Er … Gar?” said Asher.

Gar turned. “What?”

He considered the cloud-obscured ceiling. “Are you s’posed to do that?”
“What?”

‘That,” he said, and pointed.

Gar stopped. Looked. “Oh.” He frowned. “Probably not.” He snapped his fingers and the incipient thunderstorm vanished. “Asher—”

Damn, damn, damn. This was going to give him ulcers, he just
knew
it. “I get it,” he sighed, “You need a united household. Me and Darran singin’ the same song.”