The Awakened Mage

by Karen Miller

“You said you trusted me, Asher. I swear I’ll do you no harm.” Then she pulled a small face. “Well. No great harm, and not lasting either.”

  He wanted to refuse her, she could see it in his eyes. But some lingering memory of the Circle persuaded him. Scowling, he pulled open his shirt. Scowled harder when she lifted the knife. Its sharp blade glinted wicked in the lamplight.

  He sucked in a deep breath. “Veira—Veira—”

  She struck without mercy, shcing open the thick muscle of his chest directly above bis heart. Shced lengthways then dropped the knife and thrust in her finger, tearing apart the muscle’s long fibers, creating a hole. Blood made her fingers slippery. His harsh breath was hot in her face. She picked up the crystal shard and pressed it into the wound, forcing it deep inside the tissue. He was gasping now, grunting with the pain. With indignation, and shock.

  She leaned towards him. Put her forehead hard to his, clasped the nape of his neck with her left hand and pressed her bloodied fingers to his chest.

  “Breathe with me... breathe with me...” she whispered. “Come, child, it’s nearly over. And what is pain but a mere sensation?”

  Hidden words rose tumultuous to her tongue. Words she’d been given long years ago but thought never to be called on to speak. His wounded flesh heated. Molded. Grew cool. She let her hands fall free of him. Sat up straight and smiled into his face.

  “Done, then. And well done too. Good boy.”

  “You bloody mad crazy ole woman!” he shouted, scrambling to his feet. “What d’you think you’re doin’? Carvin’ me like a Barl’s Day roast? What kind of craziness is this?”

  Bone weary now, and emptied, she looked at the flesh of his chest. No wound there any more. Not even a scar. Just a faint irregularity, where the crystal shard was hidden. “You’re one with the Circle now, child,” she told him. “They’re a part of you, unremovable. When the time comes and the power is called for you’ll have it at your fingertips. In your blood and bones.”

  Those fingertips were scrabbling at his chest. “What? What? What are you talkin’ about?”

  “Quiet your mind,” she advised him. “Sink deep inside yourself. Can you feel them, Asher? All our good friends of the Circle? Can you hear their heartbeats, waiting?”

  Startled, he stared at her. Closed his eyes, then jumped as though stuck with a pin. “Sink me bloody sideways!”

  She chuckled. “What I told you last night of our magic, Asher, is only the beginning. There’s more to learn yet and much you could teach me, if we had time. There’s magic in you I doubt I’ll ever understand. But that’s how Prophecy wanted it, and who am I to question Prophecy? Have a look in my top dresser drawer, will you? There should be a blue felt drawstring bag in there.”

  Bemused, bewildered, he found the bag she wanted and tossed it to her. She gathered up the other broken pieces of the hammered crystal and shpped them safe inside.

  “Now what?” he said, still rubbing at that place on his chest, though she knew he had no more pain there.

  “Now you go clean yourself up. And don’t mention this to the others. I’ll tell them myself when the time’s right.”

  He snorted. “There’s only Matt I’m talkin’ to.”

  “Then don’t tell him,” she snapped, impatient. “Go and see if he needs help with the horses. Or the wagon. Make yourself useful, at any rate. When those War spells are ready for you to practice, everything else must be done.” She looked to the bedroom window, out at the pouring rain. “There’s precious little time left.”

  He nodded. Went to the door, then stopped. Turned. All of a sudden he looked young, and uncertain. “Veira. Can I do this?”

  She poured all her hope and believing into a smile. “Yes, child. You can.”

  He smiled in return, swift and wry. “Crazy ole woman,” he muttered, then left her alone.

  Heart aching, she creaked to her feet, tidied up her chamber then went to the kitchen to help.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  In the City unsummoned water poured from the sky, alarming its insect inhabitants. Morg lounged on his townhouse balcony and watched the stinking rain fall, listened to the jabbering insect voices in the street below and savored the swelling sense of alarm.

  In the distance, Barl’s dying Wall shuddered. Blubbery Willer came panting to see him. “Your Majesty—Your Majesty—Barlsman Holze craves an urgent audience! Shall I send him away too?”

  Morg smiled. He’d been wondering how much longer he’d have to wait before the Barl-sot came bleating. “No. Show him into the drawing room, Willer.”

  He lingered a few moments longer, just to appreciate his handiwork, then sauntered downstairs to join Barl’s little champion. On his entrance the cleric leapt to his feet. He was looking harried, distressed, no flowers in his Barlsbraid. There was a stain on the front of his workday robes.

  “Conroyd!” he said, his reedy voice unsteady. “I confess all my hopes were pinned upon not finding you here. Upon the frail hope that these inclement conditions were the result of your WeatherWorking inexperience and the lack of a Master Magician. But as you are here, and not at work in the Weather Chamber...” His voice trailed off and his hands clutched each other convulsively. “Conroyd ... you must have seen the Wall. Do you have an explanation?”

  It was too soon yet to reveal his true face, so he arranged his expression into a mask of sorrow and disciplined alarm. “Efrim, dear Efrim, indeed you’ve read my . mind. I was about to send for you, as it happens. I need your help.”

  “Anything! Anything!” said fool Holze fervently. “Just tell me what I can do! Tell me what’s gone wrong!”

  He took a turn about the room, pretending to an agitation he was very far from feeling. “I’ve not said this to another soul, Efrim, and I must ask you to keep it secret. If word gets out I fear for the people’s safety. Barl’s Wall is damaged. Not beyond my power to heal, of course,” he added as the cleric stifled a shocked moan and sank into the nearest chair. “But certainly it will take some time. Blessed Barl’s Weather Magics have shown me how to effect a remedy and I’m doing all I can. In time, I will succeed. But there will be more rain, and other unpleasantness, before I have completely undone the damage.”

  “Asher,” said Holze, uncommonly vicious. “This is the doing of that renegade Olken.”

  Morg bowed his head in feigned sorrow. “Yes. I fear so.”

  “Have you spoken to that idiot Gar?”

  “No,” he said after a moment. “Why would I? Gar Torvig is a private citizen now. Irrelevant and unnecessary.”

  “Yes, but he was there when Asher tinkered with the weather,” Holze said eagerly. Filled with a sudden, false hope. “Perhaps he can tell us exactly what the criminal did, in detail. Perhaps that will help you put things right!”

  An ingenious thought, if pointless. But interrogating the cripple would give Holze something to do. Keep him out of the way. He nodded. “Bless you, Efrim. I should’ve thought of this myself.”

  “No, no, Conroyd. You are pushed to your limit!”

  Morg nearly laughed aloud at that. “I’m afraid, Efrim, all the wonderful plans we hatched the other night will have to wait a little longer. Unless I rescue us from Asher’s perfidious treachery we’ll have no glorious future.”

  “Of course, of course!” agreed Holze, standing. “Nothing is more important than the repairing of Barl’s Wall. That is your sacred duty, Conroyd!”

  He nodded. “Precisely. Now, as it happens, you can serve me in two other matters. Firstly, keep the City’s population occupied with prayer. You need not be specific, a supportive exhortation on my behalf should be sufficient. I thought it might help allay the people’s worries and let them feel they can contribute to the well-being of our beloved kingdom. It will also stop your subordinate clerics from speculating unwisely.”

  Holze nodded. “Of course. What else?”

  “Until this crisis passes I think it would be wise to suspend all council activity, Privy and General.”r />
  “Are you certain?” said Holze, frowning. “There is still the business of the kingdom to conduct.”

  “But will it be profitably conducted while the weather remains ... unbalanced?” Morg shook his head, as though it mattered. “I think we both know the answer to that. The guilds will agitate and our Doranen brethren will press for some arcane involvement. As it is, Efrim, I turn away unsubtle requests for an audience every hour.”

  Unhappily, the dodderer nodded. “Yes. Yes. I fear this latest transition of power has upset a great many people.”

  Upset? Morg turned away, hiding a gleeful smile. The insects had yet to learn the meaning of the word... “I’d take it as a great personal favor, Efrim, if you could announce my decision in an emergency council session. I’ll have Willer notify the councilors. Make sure you exhort them to pray hard for our kingdom’s delivery.”

  Holze bowed. “Of course, Your Majesty. Be assured I will see to it.”

  Concealing his distaste, Morg embraced the gullible cleric. “I trust you implicitly, Efrim. Go now and minister to our kingdom. Use Willer as you would a servant of your own.”

  “You won’t need him?”

  Need Willer? “It’s a sacrifice I’m ready to make in the service of beloved Lur,” he said gravely. “Barl’s blessings go with you, dear friend.”

  Alone again, gloriously alone, Morg stretched out on the study sofa, closed his eyes and listened to the music of thunder as it rattled the vulnerable windowpanes.

  ———

  Beyond Veira’s curtained sitting room the wind howled mercilessly, without surcease. Unrelenting rain hammered the ground outside and hail the size of hens’ eggs thudded against the cottage’s thatched roofing. Gar glanced up, frowning. He’d heard it smash a window earlier but hadn’t gone to look. Someone else would deal with that.

  He had to stay focused on his own task: the accurate translation of Barl’s hoarded, horrible spells. Some half-dozen he’d completed already, and handed over to Veira so Asher might learn their dangerous intricacies. Perhaps a dozen more remained for him to decipher. They made his head hurt.

  The door opened and Dathne came in. “Soup,” she said, balancing a tray. “And bread. You’ve been cooped up here for hours. You should eat something.”

  Behind her kind concern, deep sorrow. Her eyes were hollow, her lips deeply bracketed with lines of pain. He pushed aside his papers and took the tray from her. Steam wafted from the soup bowl, fragrant—but still unappetising. She went to the window, tugged apart the faded curtains and stared at the pitiless downpour.

  He put down the tray, picked up the spoon and made himself swallow a little broth. Chicken. As a child it had been his favorite. He said, watching her, “I take it that where Asher’s concerned, you’ve ceased to exist too?”

  She flinched, just a little. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “Fine,” he said, and swallowed more soup. Chewed on the bread, which was stale. “What’s everyone else doing?”

  “Matt’s cluttered the kitchen with harness, and he and Darran are oiling it.”

  He choked. “Darran’s oiling harness?”

  “He’s determined to be useful.” Dear old man. “And Veira?”

  Dathne hesitated a moment. “She’s outside in the shed with Asher. Helping him learn your war spells.”

  His spoon dropped into the bowl. “Veira can do war spells?”

  “No,” said Dathne, turning away from the window. “But since Asher refused to let you help him practice she’s just... keeping an eye on him. You know. In case ...”

  In case he accidentally killed himself. “I see.”

  “But he’s doing fine. Veira says you’d think he’d been summoning war-beasts since before he could walk.”

  “Did you know that about him?”

  “I knew nothing about him, beyond he is the Innocent Mage.” She rubbed her hands up and down her arms. “It’s cold.”

  “It is,” he agreed. “The trip back to Dorana will be miserable, I think.” In more ways than the merely physical.

  She nodded at Barl’s diary, shoved to one side on the little work table he’d been using. “Can an arrogant dead woman’s scribblings really save us?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, stifling a prickle of anger that Barl should be described so. Then he shrugged, his fingers caressing the diary’s mottled cover. “I hope so. Or at least, help Asher to save us. If he can. If he really is what you think.”

  “Of course he is,” she said sharply. “Or do you doubt me now? And Veira? And everything else you’ve seen and heard?”

  He smiled at her, feeling sour. “Dathne, with everything that’s happened these past weeks, if you told me my name was Gar I’d feel a moment’s doubt.”

  Her face softened. “Yes. I suppose you would. So many things turned topsy-turvy.”

  So many things. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound critical. If we do survive the coming days—if Lur survives them—we’ll have you and your Circle to thank for it.”

  “And Asher.” She bit her lip, turning back to the window and the bleak view beyond it. “Will it never stop raining now, I wonder?”

  “What did your visions show you?”

  She shivered. “Horrors I’d rather forget.”

  “Yet they showed you Asher, too. Can we have one without the other?”

  “Who knows?” She pulled the curtains closed again, hard, then hugged herself tight. “Not me.”

  “It appears between the two of us we don’t know much at all,” he said, and tried to make a joke of it.

  Unamused she stared at him, her eyes large and dark. “How could you not know, you Doranen?” she said, face and voice accusing. “You’re the grand magicians, the ones with all the power. Your father was the king, Gar, the WeatherWorker. You and your family had Morg in your midst, breaking bread with you, breathing the same air! How many hours did you spend closeted with him, studying your precious magics? How is it none of you suspected who and what he was? How could you not know?”

  “Do you think I’ve not asked myself that question?” he retorted. “Do you think an hour goes by that I don’t look back on every hour, every minute we spent in Morg’s presence and wonder how it was we were so blind? You can’t blame us for our failures more than I do, Dathne, believe me! All I can say in our defense is that Morg may once have been Morgan, a flesh and blood man, but whatever he is now it’s something beyond Doranen comprehension. Not even your Prophecy could name him, could it? Nor all your vaunted visions.”

  “At least we had our visions!” she retorted. “Six hundred years ago Jervale knew you and yours were a mistake, but your precious Barl shouted him down! How better might we be prepared for this day if—”

  His fist thumped the tabletop. “You can’t know that! Dathne, finger-pointing is pointless. What’s done is done. My people came, yours accepted us, and so your fates were bound to ours. It’s history and unchangeable. We have to focus on the future ... and hope against hope for a miracle.”

  “We have a miracle,” she said fiercely. “His name is Asher.”

  “I hope you’re right,” he said, suddenly tired. “I hope he’s everything your Prophecy claims him to be. For if he’s not, this kingdom’s doomed and every soul within it damned.”

  “I’m right,” she said, then nodded at the tray with its burden of half-drunk soup and partly chewed bread. “Are you finished with that?”

  He nodded. “Yes. Thank you. I’m sorry I couldn’t do it more justice.” As she moved to take it away, he held up a hand, pausing her, and sifted swiftly through his haphazard pile of papers. “Here,” he said, and slid three sheets under the bread plate for safekeeping. “More spells for our miracle to practice.”

  She looked at them as though they might bite. “When will you have finished all of them?”

  “By tonight sometime, I think. I hope.”

  “I hope so too,” she said, and glanced at the curtained window as a fresh wave of hail r
attled the glass. “Matt says the Weather Magic’s unravelling faster by the hour. The Wall won’t stand much longer now.”

  He pulled a face. “Then I’d best get back to work. Thank you for the soup.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said, and left him to his papers, and Barl’s diary.

  ———

  Cowering behind a pile of old boxes in her weatherbeaten shed, Veira raised her voice above the wereslag’s howling screech and shouted, “Kill it! Kill it!”

  Panting, Asher slashed a sigil through the air and uttered the words of banishment. The wereslag’s writhing orange tentacles burst into heatless flame; its eight clawed arms withered; it shriveled and died, leaving only a ring of smoking dirt on the shed floor where its acid slime had dripped and boiled.

  “Sink me bloody sideways,” he muttered, and sagged against a handy post. “How many more, eh?”

  Sidhng out from safety, Veira shuffled through the sheaf of papers in her hand. “That’s the last of the spells Matt brought out before.”

  “Then how many are left to come?”

  “You’ll have to ask Gar,” she said tartly, eyebrows lowered in a challenge.

  He curled his hp and looked out of the shed at the drowned garden. At the fringe of the Black Woods, and the trees flogging themselves to death against the leaden sky. He was exhausted. Had lost count of the monstrosities he’d called forth with just a few words and the power of his mind.

  It was a mighty uncomfortable feeling, knowing that things like wereslags and trolls and horslirs and gruesomes lurked just beneath his skin. If Da could see him now...

  Unsettled, still glooming at the lashing forest, his fingers crept up to his chest and rubbed at the hard little lump of crystal nestled in his flesh. Every time he summoned his power—a feat that came more and more easily, something else he didn’t much care for—the crystal tickled. Buzzed, as though woken from shallow sleep.

  He’d asked and he’d asked, but Veira wouldn’t tell him any more about its purpose. Just: “You’ll know when the time comes. Stop fratching me, child.”

  She said now, close enough to swat his shoulder, “Leave it be! We’ve more spells yet to conquer and it’ll be too dark soon to go on.”