The Awakened Mage

by Karen Miller

  Lord Jarralt smiled. “Willer, Willer... don’t sell yourself so short. You are far more than that. You are brave. Wise. Dedicated. Most importantly, you are there. Within the royal household. In the right place at the right time to do what must be done. To discover the proof that will rescue our dear king from this monstrous Olken. I know it will be difficult, torture even, but you must slay your pride. Swallow your repugnance for Asher, mask your legitimate loathing of him, and stay as close as you can so his actions might be observed. Can you do this, my friend? Tell me you can. Tell me I am not mistaken in your nobility, your dedication to doing what is right no matter the personal cost.”

  He could scarcely breathe. “You are not, sir, I swear you are not!”

  “You will report every discovery, every suspicion, to me and me alone,” Lord Jarralt cautioned. “No one else can know what we are about. In time, Asher’s true nature will be revealed, of this I have no doubt. But for now he has the king—indeed the kingdom—hoodwinked.”

  “Hoodwinked and bamboozled,” Willer agreed. “To my daily pain.”

  “But not forever,” said Lord Jarralt. “One day, Barl grant it be soon, Asher will stumble and you will be there to witness it. You, Willer, will save our king and kingdom from disaster and so earn the love of all men unto the end of time. But only if you say yes. If you don’t, we shall see calamity unknown since the days of Morg and you will be known throughout eternity as the man who helped to kill a kingdom. As Blessed Barl is my witness, I know this to be true. So now we come to it, Willer. Now we reach the point of no return. Will you serve our beloved Lur, my friend? Will you join me in this holy quest to slay the monster Asher?”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Willer, still breathless with emotion. “Oh, yes. I will!”

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER TEN

  Drifting on a drug-soaked sea, Morg cradles Durm’s fragile life tenderly, like a mother her babe in arms, and sings to it a song of survival. The fat fool’s flesh is reluctant to heal. With every labored breath Durm fights him, willing himself to die. Morg sweats and strives to deny him the victory.

  Pother Nix is his unwitting ally, as determined as Morg to see this ruined carcass claw its way back from the brink. The tiny part of Morg not consumed by the battle is amused; would Nix fight so hard if he knew who it was he struggled to save?

  Little King Gar is also an ally. Every day he comes to sit with Durm. Pours love and hope and healing into Durm’s slumbering ears and prays out loud for a miracle.

  Morg prays with him, and hopes dead Barl is listening.

  Durm is listening. Durm weeps, even as he hardens his weakened heart against the king’s entreaties and continues to strive for death.

  Nix says to his king. Do not give up, sir. For where there is life is also hope.

  Morg devoutly hopes that he is right. Marshals his strength, and continues his war.

  ———

  With a shuddering sigh Gar released Durm’s flaccid hand. Sorrow and despair were weights on his chest, pressing his lungs flat and crushing his heart. “Sometimes I think coming here is a waste of my time, Nix.”

  The pother pressed his shoulder briefly. “Not at all, Your Majesty. I believe our good Durm draws strength from your loving presence.”

  “But he’s struggling. Isn’t he?” he said, frowning at the Master Magician’s waxy, fallen face. “Why? Why must he fight so hard? I thought you said his injuries were healing.”

  Nix fussed at a vase of mixed lilies and sweetums on the windowsill. “They are. Slowly.”

  The man’s evasiveness was a naked flame to dry grass. Anger ignited, consuming royal restraint. “Too slowly!”

  “Everything that can be done is being done, sir. He is dosed on the hour with the freshest, most potent herbs from the infirmary garden and hothouse. All of my magical skill is dedicated to his recovery.”

  “Then why is he not healed? Why does he he here day after day in this stuporous daze, never once speaking to me or even opening his eyes!”

  Nix spread his hands wide. “If I could answer that, sir, I’d be the greatest pother in history. But he is making progress. It just takes time.”

  Gar pushed out of his chair and began to pace Durm’s small and airy chamber. “I’m being pressured, Nix. My Privy Council would have me decide Durm’s fate sooner rather than later. He was my father’s dearest friend. Is a Master Magician beyond compare. I need him. Already I’ve stalled my advisors twice. I can’t procrastinate forever. My kingdom requires a Master Magician in more than name. When will I have one?”

  Nix crossed his arms and tucked his hands into his sleeves. His expression was disappointed and reproving. “Your Majesty, you know better than to ask me that.”

  Stung, Gar folded his fingers into fists and stared through the room’s small window. In the gardens outside men and boys toiled amongst the flowerbeds, laughing in the early morning sun. How he envied them their untroubled lives. If he couldn’t at least point to a tangible, touchable improvement in Durm’s condition by the end of the week he’d have no choice but to abandon all hope of keeping Conroyd out of the Weather Chamber.

  Even worse, it would be the right thing to do.

  “I’m sorry, Nix,” he sighed. “I don’t mean to slight you. I know you can’t make that kind of pronouncement, or give me promises Durm’s body might not be able to keep.”

  The pother’s severe expression eased. “If I might presume on a lifetime’s acquaintance, sir?”

  “Presume away.”

  “Don’t let yourself be bulbed by men who have a vested interest in Durm’s slow recovery. Or by those whose honest concern is the kingdom’s welfare, but who have yet to fully accept your new status. You are the king. Sanctified by Barl, blessed with the Weather Magic. Don’t forget past the curtained window, he sank himself beneath the surface of wonder and let the magic sing.”

  ———

  According to the notices outside the palace hall where the royal family lay in state, public viewing stopped at six o’clock. Asher stood in the shadow of a deep-set doorway and listened to the plaintive protests of stragglers as Royce and John, the guards on duty, kindly but firmly chivvied them out. It was nearly half-past the hour. After a day locked up in consultations he was tired. Hungry. Worn to frazzlement with other people’s problems and dreading the night’s WeatherWorking to come. He could think of at least three other places he’d rather be. And yet, here he was.

  Tear-stained and still complaining the stragglers wandered past him, unseeing. He waited till they’d left the palace completely, then stepped out of concealment.

  “Leave that,” he said to Royce and John as they started to close the hall’s double doors. “Go home. I’ll stand watch till the next shift arrives.”

  Surprised, they stared at him. “You sure?” said Royce.

  He made himself grin. “When did you know me not sure, eh? Go on. Scarper. Or I’ll report you to Orrick for insubordination.”

  John grinned back. “No need. We’re away. Why not join us down the Goose later for a pint or three? Or are you too grand now, Meister Olken Administrator?”

  “Not too grand. Just too busy. Have one for me.”

  Laughing, they agreed to suffer on his behalf and departed. He watched them for a moment, envious, then entered the huge hall where Gar’s family lay in all their silent splendor.

  The room was gently glimlit, casting shadows, softening death. Three velvet-draped biers stood end to end in the center of the room: Borne, Dana, Fane. Crimson ropes formed a cordon around them, protecting them from extravagant grief. Their faces were uncovered, serene; their bodies buried in a riot of hothouse blooms whose scent tinted the air with summer.

  He shivered, suddenly cold. Closed the distance between himself and Borne and made himself look into that blank, uninhabited face. The king’s hair was gold again. Washed clean with soap, or magic. Flooded with relief, he realized some part of him had expected blood. Stupid.

  He took a d
eep breath. Released it slowly through gritted teeth. “Well, Your Majesty, here’s a thing. You dead. Durm still makin’ up his poxy mind. Gar figurin’ out your fancy Weather Magic as he goes along. And me... me seein’ and doin’ things no Olken’s got business stickin’ his oar into. It’s all a bloody mess, ain’t it?”

  The hall’s ceiling was so high his voice echoed. His throat felt sore, his chest tight. A tic in the muscle beside his eye twitched wildly.

  “So. Dead or not, sir, you got to do something. He’s my friend but he’s your son and I’m tellin’ you straight, I don’t know how to help him. I can’t tell if he’s doin’ your magic right or not I mean, it rains. It snows. Freezes where it’s s’posed to. I think. At least nobody’s complainin’. But it’s killin‘ him. He says it’s s’posed to hurt, it’s the price he has to pay, but this much? I can’t believe that. It’s like he’s burnin’ alive. Bein’ cut with a thousand knives. He bleeds and bleeds. At this rate I don’t reckon he’ll last one year, let alone a lifetime. And I ain’t any use to him, all I can do is watch. You asked me to take care of him, and I’m tryin’, but... you need to tell me how!”

  No reply. He shifted slightly. Looked instead at Dana and Fane. Beautiful once more, all cruel deformities hidden beneath sweet petals of pink and blue and yellow and mauve. Burnished with glimlight, preserved with powerful magic, their pale skin glowed, lifelike.

  Revolted, despairing, he flung himself away.

  Silhouetted in the doorway Dathne said, “I thought you weren’t going to come here.”

  His heart was pounding. “Changed my mind.”

  She came forward, slowly. The day’s hard work showed clearly in her tired eyes. She looked pale. “Why?”

  Because Gar’s killin’ himself with magic and I don’t know how to stop it. But he couldn’t tell her that, so he chose a different truth. “Thought if I saw ‘em like this, all clean and covered in flowers ...”

  “You’d be able to stop seeing them all broken and bloody?”

  He nodded. Who’d’ve thought he’d start bad dreams at his age? “Somethin’ like that.”

  “And is it working?”

  Without warning her face blurred and he was looking at her through a prism of tears. “No.”

  “Oh, Asher. ..”

  He wrapped his arms so tight about her he thought he heard her ribs creak, but she made no complaint. Didn’t pull away. Just threaded her long thin fingers through his hair and murmured nonsense words of comfort against his skin. Pain was a rising tide he was too weary to hold back.

  “I miss my da,” he whispered into her hair. “I never got to say goodbye. My damn brothers—they wouldn’t even tell me where he’s buried ...”

  Her warm hands framed his face. “They’re bastards. Bastards. Don’t think of them.”

  “I don’t. I didn’t. Not until now.”

  “Let it go, Asher. Your father was mortal. He was always going to die.”

  Her sudden brutality shocked him. Prising her hands free he nodded at Gar’s perished family. “Like them?”

  “Yes! Like them. We’re none of us immortal, Asher. Death ties at the end of every journey. What matters is how we travel the road.” Then her fierce eyes softened, and her fingers touched his cheek. “This isn’t just about your father, is it? Something else is troubling you. Can’t you tell me what it is? We’re friends. I can help.”

  He closed his eyes. If only he could tell her. Share the burden. The weight of it was crushing him. The fear that something terrible was happening to Gar and he was powerless to prevent it “It’s ... complicated, Dath.” Reluctantly, he stepped away from her. His skin where her fingers had rested was warm; the rest of his body felt like ice. “Maybe one day.”

  “You look exhausted.”

  “I am.”

  “Then stop tormenting yourself in here. Go home to bed. You’ve another full day of appointments tomorrow, you’ll need your wits about you.”

  He shuddered. “Don’t remind me. I got a last-ditch meeting with Glospottle and the Dyers’ Guild. If I can’t make ‘em see sense it’s all goin’ arse over eyeballs into Justice Hall.”

  A glimmer of amusement amid the concern. “Do you need me?”

  If he told her how much, he’d frighten her away. “I’ll be fine. You got enough on your plate as it is.”

  “I can reschedule my meetings, I can—”

  He pressed a finger to her lips. “No. The Bakers’ Guild can’t wait, or the Vintners’, or Lord Daltrie’s taxation committee. You want to help me? Keep the whole bloody pack of ‘em far, far away and I’ll love you forever.”

  Love. The unguarded word fell between them like a rock. Silently he cursed himself and took his finger from her lips. She turned away. Fumbled at her tunic.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Dathne—”

  “I should go,” she said, glancing at the open doorway. “I’m meeting Matt in the Goose. Did you want to—”

  His turn to look away. “Can’t. Somewhere to be.”

  Her relief was imperfectly disguised. “Another time then.”

  “Aye,” he said, heart heavy. “Another time.”

  She was smiling, but her eyes were troubled. “If we don’t cross paths tomorrow between meetings, good luck with Meister Glospottle.”

  “Thanks. I’ll need it.”

  She left him then, and he watched her go with his fists clenched hard at his sides. Fool. Fool. Of all the stupid things to say ...

  Please, Barl. Please. Don’t let me have chased her away.

  ———

  Not long after Dathne’s abrupt departure, Colly and Brin arrived for their turn at guard duty. He left them to it and made his brooding circuitous way on foot to the Weather Chamber. Entered, and waited upstairs for Gar to arrive. Stood helplessly by, again, as Lur’s king screamed and bled and fed the land its rain and magic.

  Sickened, shaking, he held the dose of restorative to Gar’s blue and bloodstained lips, coaxing it into his mouth. “Send for Jarralt, Gar! Make him Master Magician before this kills you and he takes it all.”

  Feebly, Gar pushed the cup away and slid sideways down the wall until he was prone on the parquetry floor. His shirt was soaked through with the sweat of his efforts. Convulsive shudders racked him from head to toe. He looked like a man in the last stages of some desperate illness.

  “No.”

  He threw the cup across the room. “Damn you! What am I s’posed to do?”

  Gar closed his sunken eyes. “Nothing. I am my father’s son. This cannot kill me.”

  “Well, it’s bloody near killin’ me!”

  The faintest of smiles touched Gar’s face. “Poor Asher. I’m sorry.”

  Abruptly ashamed, he dropped to the floor. “No. No. Don’t mind me. I’m scared for you, is all.”

  Grimacing, Gar forced himself to sit up. Leaning against the wall, chest heaving, he gave Asher’s shoulder a clumsy pat. “Don’t be.”

  Don’t be? What kind of sinkin’ stupid thing was that to say? Fear transmuted to fury. “Gar—”

  “You should go,” Gar said. “We don’t want—” He broke off, coughing harshly, a terrible tearing rasp of sound suggesting lung-rot. “Go,” he whispered. “I’ll be fine. I just need to rest a while.”

  “No, Gar, you—”

  “Shall I make it a royal command? GoI” He stood. “You’re mad, y’know that? Stark staring crazy.”

  Gar just shook his head. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  The long walk back to the Tower was chilly, and haunted with ugly images. What to do? Perhaps a confidential hint dropped in Pother Nix’s ear...

  Willer, a satchel hugged under one arm, was leaving the Tower just as he arrived. “Asher!” The sea slug’s face contorted into a peculiar expression of nervous ingratiation. “Fancy meeting you this late. Don’t tell me you’ve not stopped working yet?”

  Mindless chatter with Willer was the last thing he needed. “No.”

  Willer s
tepped a little sideways, blocking him. “Me, either. Darran needs these papers delivered to the palace as a matter of urgency. You know, I thought we worked hard when Gar was just a prince, but—”

  Asher raised an eyebrow. “Gar?”

  “I mean His Majesty,” said Willer hastily. “Sorry. No discourtesy intended.”

  Sorry? What the—”Willer, was there somethin’ you wanted?”

  The pissant’s fat pink cheeks flushed. “No. Well, yes. Nothing imp— that’s to say— look. Asher. I’ve been thinking. I know we’ve never quite seen eye to eye.” An embarrassed titter. “As much my fault as yours, I expect. I’d like to start over. Show you I’m not such a bad fellow after all. In fact, I’ll show wilting, shall I? Darran’s got me working from sunup to sundown and beyond, but I’d be happy to place myself at your disposal. Work alongside you, as another assistant. Who knows? We might even turn out to be friends!”

  Barl save him. His night was going from bad to worse. “Friends? You and me?”

  “Yes. After all, lots of people get off on the wrong foot to start with and then realize they were wrong about each other. Why not us?”

  Why not? He didn’t know whether to laugh or vomit. “Willer—”

  “Oh, please, Asher. At least think about it. Consider the idea of us making a fresh start.”

  “Sure. I’ll consider it.” Once I’m dead and buried...

  Willer beamed. “Oh, that’s wonderful. Thank you. I promise you won’t regret it.”

  He was regretting it already. “Fine. Grand. Goodnight, Willer.”

  He left the little slug babbling his gratitude on the Tower’s front steps and took himself up to bed. Sent down for a supper of soup and hot bread then sat stubbornly in his cozy parlor, fighting sleep, until he heard Gar’s ragged footsteps on the staircase beyond.

  Only then did he crawl into bed himself.

  ———

  Gar woke late the next morning, grudgingly. The merest sliver of light between his drawn bedchamber curtains was like a scythe slicing through his head. His chest hurt and his screwed-tight eyes. His skin. His bones. His whole body overflowed with a grinding, remorseless pain.