The Royal Wizard (29 page)

“You want to reclaim it?” The mere thought of losing it made the sorcerer clutch his precious pendant to his chest.

“Perhaps,” Loki said with a thoughtful look. “I have not yet decided.”

“Let me keep it awhile longer,” the sorcerer said, as if his very life depended on the trinket. The sad truth was, by now it probably did. “Let me claim the wizard’s power, and then you can have it.”

The crumpled shield went flying off the wall at the sorcerer. With a loud gasp, the sorcerer threw up a barrier to deflect the warped metal and send it slashing into the opposite wall. It became buried there. “It is not your place to barter!”

The sorcerer cowered. What Loki wouldn’t give for someone with a solid backbone. “Forgive me, I meant no disrespect.” He pushed up to kneel on the bed. “I meant only to suggest an alternative. If you would but consider, it might prove engaging.”

An attempt at the royal wizard’s powers?

Intriguing.

But pointless.

“Forget the wizard,” Loki said. “She will never yield her power and far too many forces stand guard over her.” Something he disliked greatly was being told he could not play with a shiny new toy.

“I can do it,” the sorcerer insisted. He was far too weak to make it to his feet to stand, though he did try. And fail. “I can get her power and take it from the stone for myself.”

Loki laughed, an ugly sound that resonated in the bright, bright room, and the remaining shields crumpled where they hung. The black crystal sparked with a sinister light in answer, sensing its creator, calling out to him like a long lost favored pet wanting to return.

The sorcerer’s ire rose and his face gained some color, though it failed to fully express his feelings. “I can use it to restore myself and live forever.”

And again, he spoke out of place!

Loki was losing his patience with this puny man. This time, when he made the mattress fly, he dumped the sorcerer off it. When he would have moved, the furs came to life, curling limbs and claws around him to hold him down. Loki took his time crossing the chamber, giving the sorcerer an opportunity to remember his place. He put one foot on the man’s chest, lightly, just enough to make it near impossible for him to draw a breath. From the night stand he summoned a trio of sharp, gleaming daggers. He leveled one at the sorcerer’s eye, one at his throat, and one at his hand, still clutching the pendant.

“If I gave you a choice,” he said thoughtfully, “which would you want part with, your sight, your voice, or your hand with the toy in it?”

The sorcerer was turning blue.

“Indulge me, if you will. I am curious about how that mind of yours works. If I take away your sight, you will have an excuse for your insolence. How are you to know whom you are speaking to when you cannot see them? If I take your tongue, you will no longer say anything insolent. You will not say anything at all. But if I take your toy,”—he drew the blade over the inside of the sorcerer’s wrist—“you will no longer have reason to believe you can be insolent.”

The sorcerer freed one hand and grasped onto Loki’s ankle, pulling with all the might he possessed to save himself. Even with the pendant aiding him, he could not budge Loki an inch.

The Trickster leaned a little more weight on that foot, feeling the boundary past which bones would break. He skirted it closely, but did not cross. Instead, he leaned down to meet the mortal’s gaze, letting him see the vast, swirling darkness in his eyes. “Speak to me once more in that tone of voice, and I will give you the immortality you crave. I will give you forever to regret your words.”

By the time he removed himself again to the other side of the room, the sorcerer was in his bed, on a righted mattress, coughing wretchedly. “I can do it,” he said between ragged breaths.

Of course, there was no possibility of that. The other gods would never allow it. Not that it would ever get so far. Daughter of a demigod and a water sprite, Lady Nialei of the Streams would never yield without a fight. And now, with the dragon’s blood, she might even be powerful enough to not only stop the sorcerer, but destroy him as well.

The sorcerer would burn like tinder in the face of her terrible wrath, never knowing how he had failed, still trying to capture that fire inside the stone—in himself, the fool.

But watching him try and fail might prove entertaining. And if the fight came to sway overwhelmingly in the wizard’s favor, he could always step in and make it a little more equal. No one had ever said he could not meddle in a mortal’s affairs. That it would affect the Lady was simply a tragic coincidence.

It was bad politics to anger everyone around him. Like them or not, he still had to live with all those other gods. If he defied them, they’d become insufferable, and there weren’t enough hiding places in all the dimensions to avoid them for long enough. Better to keep them content. For the moment.

This little rebellion would undoubtedly feel quite satisfying once it was under way. And he was certain that as soon as he left the sorcerer, his destiny would once more turn dark. How could it not?

The sorcerer watched him, scarce breathing. He was still, save for the shaking of his hands and lips. It seemed the older humans got, the more difficult it was for them to not move.

Loki held out his hand. The stone tore out of the sorcerer’s grasp, and he cried out in helpless anger. It came to the Trickster, rubbing over his palm as if to appease him. He had but to think about wishing it and it opened to him, displaying all the pretty shinies it held within.

Powers and magics no single being should ever possess. Nearly all of what humanity had to offer bottled in a small black crystal, neutral as long as its wearer remained so. They never did. From their influence, the magics were turning dark and evil.

Though Loki was ever one to cause mischief, this darkness in the power made him uneasy. It warped his creation, changing the design and slowly forming a hole. It was not yet finished, he could see. It only waited for that one last bolt to crash through the warp and leave the crystal open wide.

So this was how the sorcerer hoped to become immortal. Once again, the fool didn’t realize what he dealt with.

Black ice could hold not only magics, but traits as well. Thoughts and feelings, hopes and dreams. Perfect imitations of the wielders’ true souls. So many lay within that they would overwhelm the sorcerer, make him crazed. The shock would strip him of his control and the powers would destroy him.

Win or lose, the sorcerer was already dead.

But if the powers held within the stone drained into him instead, his body would not be a strong enough prison for them. They would burst out of him and, dark as they were, wreak havoc on the human world.
Woden would not like that,
Loki thought with a dejected sigh. The god king would know the stone’s origins and hold Loki responsible, even though he’d not interfered a single time since the pendant had come to life for the old woman.

And that meant that his choices had just been whittled away to only one. He closed his fist around the pendant, searing it shut for the moment. It would not hold for very long, the warp in the structure was weakening it already. When he tossed it back to the sorcerer, happy tears sprang up in the old man’s eyes.

“I knew it,” he said.

“Knew what?” Not that he cared.

“I knew I was right,” the sorcerer cried. “You’d not have returned the stone to me if I was to fail. There is too much at risk.” He cackled madly, crawling on hands and knees back to the center of the bed to curl into a ball with the pendant clutched to his chest again.

Loki watched him rejoice for a while, allowed him to gain more and more confidence in himself, and begin celebrating the grand victory he imagined in his future. He built the sorcerer’s hope into a firm belief. Before he shattered it. “You forget who it is you are speaking to.”

Silence descended upon the garishly appointed chamber as the sorcerer realized his fate was no more certain than the outcome of a coin toss. His face turned gray, his eyes opened wider, and a small wailing sound escaped him. Doubt. Fear. He would carry them next to his ailing heart for a day or two, as he carried the crystal, but soon both would fade, conquered by his greed.

Satisfied for the moment, the Trickster melted back into shadow, back through the portal to await the grand battle.

CHAPTER 31

Nia dreamed of walking through a beautiful forest. The sky was bright blue above her, the grass soft and warm beneath her bare feet. Woodland creatures watched her from all around, their large, curious eyes unblinking. Nia smiled at them, sent them her greetings, but they didn’t respond. Thinking nothing of it, she continued on her path and came to a footbridge across a forest stream.

There, her step slowed. It was a plain enough bridge, three flat, even planks laid side by side across the stream. Nothing to cause alarm. Yet she felt the tension in the earth as it waited. The stream glistened like magic, singing songs she could almost understand. It called to her, beckoned her closer. But the sight of the bridge held her back.

It didn’t belong. Whatever it was, it ought not be here.

But, though she knew this, Nia couldn’t stop herself from stepping closer. The grass hugged her feet, the blades sliced skin, but the sting was soothed by morning dew. Another step closer. Close enough to see the grooves in the wood.

Close enough to see the planks had rooted themselves into the bank as though still alive. As she studied it, puzzled by this unnatural magic, the roots groaned and strained. The ground bulged and then broke apart as a long, thick root tore out with enough force to snap like a whip.

It lashed back again and Nia jumped aside, but she wasn’t quick enough and the tip cut her skirt open across one thigh. Blood marred her white skin and the roots groaned again, laughing.

One after the next, the bridge planks tore out of their moorings across the stream and stood on end before her. They melted together into a solid pillar, and then what used to be the center plank collapsed in on itself, pulling the others around it to form a frame. The center plank twisted tighter, became darker. So dark it was like black glass, reflecting the world back to Nia, but she couldn’t see herself in its surface.

The stream sang louder, a warning this time. It went unheeded. Her gaze on the crystal in front of her, Nia came closer. The forest hissed, creatures crying out; she heard them fighting to come to her. She thought about releasing them, but the idea was as fleeting as a rare southern breeze.

Another step. Reaching out to touch the beautiful, dark thing, wondering at its secrets.

The root whip snapped again, lashing at her wrist and around it, squeezing like a sharp vise. It snatched Nia forward off her feet and into the air. She cried out at the searing pain, tears stinging her eyes. Yet she was still unable to look away from the crystal, searching for her reflection, desperate to see it and…there! An image began to form.

The stream roared; she heard its fury uncoil from deep underground and the crystal’s pull intensified. She could almost make out her face.

The stream exploded into the air and broke the root binding her in half.

It jarred her out of the enchantment and Nia fell to the ground, scrambling away. The forest creatures swarmed her, big and small, hackles up and teeth barred at the black glass and the bridge. The stream battered the crystal without mercy. It fought back, growing in size, but the bigger it became, the harder the water beat at it until it began to break apart under the onslaught. It screamed like a wild thing, and the animals gathered closer around Nia, pushing her away from it.

Nia shuddered. It sounded human. Human, and filled with dark rage. This was no ordinary dream.

The stream didn’t let up until the crystal reverted back to wood and broke apart into small pieces to be washed away. As it did, the root still twined around her wrist withered and fell away, turning to dust.

Nia opened her eyes and gasped for breath. She was in her own bed, the stillness of earth telling her the world had not yet awakened to morning. Hands shaking, she brushed her hair away from her face and felt wetness smear across her cheek. She frowned and summoned light.

The skin of her wrist was chafed bloody.

* * *

The sorcerer screamed his rage at the crystal and hurled it across the chamber. It struck the earthen pitcher and shattered it to dust. He tore the warped silver disc off the wall, slammed it on the floor and then stomped on it again and again until his foot slipped and he fell.

The furs weren’t thick enough to temper his fall, and a bone in his leg snapped like a twig. In his fury, it mended in an instant, but the pain remained and enraged him further. He struggled to his feet, gasping, and hobbled back to the bed. By the time he sat, the crystal was slithering like a snake back into his hand.

He stared at it while he caught his breath. It was a thing. It didn’t think or feel. But staring into its depths, the sorcerer admired its imitation of regret.

And then it sang.

In the first few months after he acquired it, that song used to terrify him. Haunting, sinister strains, like those of a reed whistle, would fill the night, bringing him nightmares of demons wearing human skin. They tore into each other, fed on their own innards and drank their own blood. He would wake up in a sweat, screaming and weeping like a child afraid of the dark. But no matter how many times he took it into his head to get rid of the crystal, he could never make his fingers uncurl from around its chain.

It owned him, not the other way around.

But in return for his service, it gave him the world. It showed him the mysteries of the south, the beauties of the west, the treasures of the east and the magics of the north.

Then why, with all its power and cunning, could it not bring him the gods damned wizard?

Thrice now it had failed, and the sorcerer was beginning to think the Trickster had spoken true. Each time he set a trap for her, something snatched her right out of his grasp.