Awakened Mage

by Karen Miller

  Amusement faded swiftly, however. His window of opportunity was fast sliding shut. Ethienne’s optimism was little short of wishful thinking. If Durm had survived this far it would be just bis luck for the man to make a full recovery. And if that happened any hope of discrediting Gar would disappear. Durm would safeguard his dead friend’s son to the death. Even to the extent of protecting that miserable Asher.

  No. If he was going to strike ... seize the throne ... seize his destiny, it would have to be soon.

  He passed a pair of patrolling City Guards. They stared hard, recognized him, and nodded their heads politely as they continued on their way. He ignored them.

  The Barlsgarden wasn’t far on horseback or by carriage; on foot, it took him over half an hour and he was sweating by the time he reached the west gate. So much for his bath. The flower-infested patch of ground lay in the City’s somnolent religious district. No shops or taverns or restaurants here, just the sprawl of Barl’s Chapel seminary, hospice and modest accommodation for clergy too old or infirm to continue then religious duties abroad in the kingdom. It was the perfect place for a meeting best kept private. No foot traffic, no inconvenient horses or carriages carrying people who had no need to know his business. AD the little novices and Barlspeakers would be safely tucked into their beds or on their bony knees by now, praying. He was safe.

  The Barlsgarden had a high wrought-iron fence all round it, punctuated with four gates, but to the best of his knowledge they were never shut. He slipped into the grounds through the west gate and waited.

  “My lord! My lord?”

  Frawley. Panting at his heels pudgy Willer, streaming sweat and stinking of garlic. The reek of it warred with the Barlsgarden’s sweet winter jasmine, and won. Jarralt resisted the urge to press a kerchief to his nose and mouth, and stepped into the faint pool of tight cast from a distant glimlamp.

  “Lower your voice, Frawley,” he ordered. “Sound carries. You extracted Meister Driskle without comment?”

  “Sorry, sir. Yes, sir. Nobody saw me take him.”

  Willer, his expression a distasteful conglomeration of anxiety and eagerness to please, bowed untidily. He was still struggling for air. “My... lord! How can I serve you? Frawley says he passed... along my message. I’m afraid I don’t know any more than that, concerning ... the Master Magician’s condition.”

  Jarralt looked down his nose at him; it was a useful technique for intimidation. “Yes. It is your lack of knowledge that brings us here.”

  The fat little Olken paled. “My lord?”

  “When we first met, Willer, you gave the impression of a man urgently desirous of saving our precious kingdom from calamity,” he said, letting his displeasure show. “Yet all I have received from you so far are vague hints, unsubstantiated suspicions and a list of transgressions that, while they may perfectly illuminate Asher’s unsatisfactory character, hardly advance our cause of proving he’s a danger to the crown. Can it be I was mistaken in you, sir?”

  “My lord!” the little man squealed. “I’m doing my best, I swear it! But it’s not easy. Asher’s so damned secretive!”

  Jarralt allowed his expression to ice over. “So. When you assured me you were perfectly placed to uncover Asher’s misdeeds, you were in fact...” He stretched the pause to screaming point. “Exaggerating?”

  “No, no! And I wasn’t lying either! I am perfectly placed, my lord! My life on it!” the Olken protested in a gasp. “It just might take a little longer than I—than we— thought. But I’ll do it. I swear I’ll do it!”

  “Neither my time nor my patience, Willer, are infinite.”

  Cringing like a whipped cur, the Olken dared to touch a fingertip to Jarralt’s sleeve. “My lord, I’m sure I could learn more if only I could get access to Asher’s private papers. To his office and all his desk drawers.”

  “You suspect Asher of hiding incriminating evidence in his office?”

  For a moment the fat man struggled with his reply. Then he shrugged unhappily. “My lord, I can’t in honesty say so for certain. But if he keeps it anywhere, I’m sure it’s there. Or in his private apartments. If only I could get inside when he wasn’t around, I know I could find the evidence we require. But he keeps all his doors locked and I don’t have keys. Darran does but he won’t let me—”

  The flowerbeds were lined with small round river pebbles, black and white in turn. Jarralt stooped and selected one of each color. Enclosing the black one in his right fist, he whispered an incantation against his folded fingers and waited for the humming buzz against his flesh that would signal the spell’s success. A flash of heat, a sizzling thrill, and it was done.

  “This will unlock any door or drawer,” he said, holding the pebble out to his pawn. “Use it wisely. I will know where it has been.”

  With eyes like a greedy child’s the Olken took the pebble and slipped it into a weskit pocket. “My lord.”

  Next he enchanted the white pebble and held it out “This one will give you an hour’s feeble glimlight. Enough to see by, but not be seen. Rap it once against a hard surface to activate the spell, once again to turn it off. When you have found what it is we require throw both pebbles into the nearest well and send to Frawley immediately, no matter the hour. Is that understood?”

  The white pebble disappeared into another pocket “My lord, I will not betray your trust” fat Willer promised. “We will apprehend this miscreant, you have my solemn word. The kingdom will be saved.”

  Clearly, he was expecting some kind of response. A compliment, possibly, or a heartfelt declaration of faith and gratitude. Jarralt looked at Frawley. “Escort him back to his lodgings by a different route. Avoid the guards and any other late-night pedestrians.”

  Frawley bowed. “My lord.” Taking the repellent man’s black woollen sleeve, he hustled him away.

  Jarralt watched them go, waiting till they’d rounded a corner out of sight then pulled his own cloak a little closer and struck out for home. Smiling, he allowed a little of Ethienne’s optimism to warm him.

  Soon. Soon now, despite Durm’s tiresome attachment to life, he would have Borne’s wretched son and the inconvenient Olken at his mercy. A brief unpleasantness, a minor upheaval. A short period of public mourning, and then a new day would dawn.

  Bow down, you people of Lur. Make way. Pay homage. Here is your new liege, King Conroyd the First.

  ———

  Dathne propped her elbows on her dinner table and frowned. “I thought you liked my cooking,” she said. She sounded puzzled. Maybe even a little hurt.

  Seated opposite her, Asher looked at the muddle of carrot, spinach and spicy mince on his plate and pulled a ¥ face. “Sorry. Guess I ain’t got much of an appetite.”

  She reached for the bread, tore off a fresh hunk and mopped up her leftover gravy. “What’s wrong?”

  He loved to watch her eat. Such swift, precise movements. All her formidable personality focused on taste and texture. “There’s a WeatherWorking set for tonight.”

  Displeased, she wiped her fingers on her napkin. “If it disturbs you so much, don’t go.”

  “Dath ...” He sighed. “Don’t.”

  “I won’t pretend to like it just because you want me to,” she said tartly.

  “You’d rather I lied?”

  “I’d rather you stayed here!”

  “Aye, well, so would I, but we both know I can’t.”

  She pushed away from the table and began clearing the plates. “Won’t.”

  Damn. He’d come here for respite, not reproaches. He stood. “I can’t do this, Dathne. Not tonight.”

  She beat him to the door. Pressed her back to it and held her palms out. “Wait. Wait.” Her hands came to rest on his chest. “I’m sorry. Don’t go. Not until you have to. I didn’t mean to nag. It’s just—I worry about you.”

  His heart beneath her hands beat hard and fast. “I know. But with any luck I’ll not be involved much longer. Now Durm’s turned the corner—”

 
“Is it certain? Nix thinks he’ll make a full recovery?”

  “He’s ... hopeful.”

  He watched the doubt shift behind her eyes. Saw her take a breath, ready with more pesky questions he couldn’t answer without telling more lies. He stopped her mouth in the only way he could think of: with his own.

  Shocked, she tightened her fingers on him, clutching at his shirt. He heard her muffled protest. Felt her stiffen and begin to pull away. Giddy, he put his arms around her, crushing her close. She tasted of wine and spices and surprise. Just as he thought he’d misread her entirely, ruined everything, she surrendered. Became pliant in his arms. Kissed him back, with passion.

  When at last they parted she stared at him, panting. He managed to smile. “Not goin’ to hit me, are you?”

  Her soft lips curved in a smile. “I should.”

  “For takin’ liberties? Aye. Prob’ly. Specially since I ain’t sorry.” He felt his own smile fade then. “Are you?”

  She answered him with a kiss that stole his breath as completely as he’d stolen hers. Then she released him, and reached up to frame his face with her hands. Her eyes were fierce. “I understand why you do it, Asher. Gar’s your friend and you love him. But don’t let love blind you to danger. Or lull you into false security. He may be your friend but he’s the king first and he’ll not forget that. Don’t you forget it either.”

  Her words cut too close for comfort. To hide his face from her he pulled her to him in another embrace. Sighed as her arms slid around his neck and her fingers ran through his hair. “It’s all right, Dath,” he whispered. “I know what I’m doing.” And hoped she’d believe him. Wished he could believe himself. For the briefest, maddest moment he wanted to reveal his impossible secret.

  She pulled away, half smiling, half frowning. “What? What is it?”

  No. It was impossible. To tell her would be monstrous. Selfish. Unkind, and dangerous. How could he love her and risk her life? He shook his head. “Nothing. I should go. Rest up a bit, before the Working.”

  “Rest here.”

  “Dath, if I stayed I doubt either of us’d get much rest.”

  She punched him. “Speak for yourself! I know what’s right and what isn’t.”

  He rubbed his smarting chest; she had a hard fist when she felt like it. “No. I meant that sooner or later you’d start on at me again about Gar and then we’d be branglin’ and I don’t want to spoil things.” He traced the sharp clean hne of her cheek with his finger. “Spoil this.”

  Capturing her hand in his, she touched her lips to his knuckles. “You won’t.”

  “I know I won’t, ‘cause I’m leavin’,” he said. “I wanted to see Matt any road. Clear the air after the other day. We been avoidin’ each other.”

  “Don’t worry about Matt,” she said, pulling a face. “He’ll get over it.”

  “Aye, but I won’t. I’m a sensitive flower, me,” he said, and laughed when she punched him again. “Ow. See?”

  She pulled free of him and opened the door. “Fine. Off you go then, Meister Flower. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “What, you ain’t goin’ to walk me out?”

  “I would if you deserved it.”

  He kissed her again for that, swiftly, and let the expression of shy pleasure on her face warm him all the way home. Where, since he’d been telling the truth about Matt, he went straight to the stable yard.

  Matt was still at work, mending a broken bridle in his office. The pot-bellied stove in the corner belched heat and bubbled a kettie on its lid. Asher kicked the office door closed and went to the cupboard. Fished out a mug and the tea jar and set about brewing himself a cup. Matt threaded his needle with a fresh length of waxed thread, mute as a swan.

  He sighed. Added a dollop of honey to his tea and said, stirring, “You told me you weren’t in love with her.”

  “I’m not,” Matt answered, after a moment.

  “Then why does it matter if I am?”

  “Did I say it matters?”

  Exasperated, he threw down his spoon. “You didn’t have to! It was written all over your face. So d’you want to tell me what’s goin’ on?”

  Still Matt stared at his stitching. “Nothing’s going on.”

  “Is that so?” Carefully, he put down his mug. “Then why won’t you look at me, Matt? What are you scared I’ll see in your eyes when you say I don’t love her’?”

  Matt did look at him then. Stabbed his needle into the ball of waxed harness thread and stood. “Nothing. It’s none of my nevermind, Asher, you’ve made that clear. Now why don’t you go about your business and leave me to—”

  A crashing from the stable yard spun him about, last words forgotten. As one they leapt for the office door. Matt reached it first, wrenched it open. All the horses were jostling now, roused to whickers and kicking by the panicked banging and thrashing in their midst.

  Matt swore. “That bloody animal, it’s been nothing but trouble—grab the long line, Asher. I’ll need your help.”

  The gray colt that had hurt itself on the way to Dorana was cast in its stable. As the startled lads rushed downstairs into the yard, hauling on boots and jackets as they came, Matt caught the rope Asher threw him and led the way to its box.

  “Stand back, boys,” he ordered the lads. “We don’t want to panic him further.”

  Asher looked over the stable door. The colt had rolled up against the wall. Legs half folded between belly and timber, it was trapped and half mad with terror. He could see blood already. Horses had killed themselves like this; they didn’t have much time.

  Without speaking, not needing to, he and Matt entered the stable. The colt began to thrash again. He went to its head, held its cheek to the straw with one hand and pressed its neck flat with his knee. Restrained, the colt grunted and groaned but couldn’t move. Swiftly Matt looped one end of the rope around the colt’s front legs, the other around its hind. With the knots secure, he looked across and nodded.

  “On three. One—two—three!”

  He pulled, and Asher guided the colt’s head and neck, rolling it over and away from the wall. As soon as it was clear Asher pinned the colt down again and Matt untied the rope. Young JimT, always fast on the uptake, slid the bolt on the stable door and held it open just wide enough. Then they threw themselves out of the stable as the sweaty colt lurched to its feet, then bucked and reared and stamped its rage.

  Safe in the yard, blotting sweat, Matt said, “Thanks. Damn bloody thing “

  Asher grinned. “Me or the horse?”

  Matt’s answering grin was ... complicated. “What do you think?”

  They had an audience of goggling stable lads; it was no place for a private, painful conversation. “I think I need to get goin’. We’ll talk later, eh?”

  Coiling up the rope, again Matt wouldn’t look at him. “If you insist.”

  Baffled, hurt, he shoved his hands in his pockets. “You sayin’ there’s nowt to talk about?”

  Then Matt did look up. His face was weary. Sad. “I’m saying I doubt it’ll make much difference.”

  Stung, Asher turned on his heel and started walking. Said over his shoulder, “Aye ... well... don’t do me any favors, Matt.”

  Despite his anger, he hoped Matt might come after him. Call after him, at least. Make some kind of effort. Nothing.

  So—sink it. If Matt wanted to play the sore loser, let him. He had other friends, and other things to worry about.

  Like WeatherWorking.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Two hours later, as the burning magic faded, Asher let his legs fold beneath him and thudded to the Weather Chamber floor. Through barely open eyes he watched gentle rain tumble onto the fallow apple orchards of the Home Districts, and snow feather itself over the icewine region of Fairvale.

  “Here,” said Gar, and held out a cup of Nix’s disgusting potion. Hand shaking, Asher took it and drank the vile sludge of herbs and vinegars concocted to keep body and soul together. His belly hea
ved, protesting, but he managed to keep it down.

  Gar reached for him with a damp cloth. “Now your face—”

  “I can do it,” he mumbled. “Don’t need a bloody nursemaid.”

  He could feel Gar’s worried gaze on him as he dabbed at his blood-sticky skin. “You shouldn’t try to do so much at once,” Gar said. “Olken aren’t meant to endure this kind of power.”

  He dropped the stained cloth and dragged himself to his feet. He couldn’t stand unaided, though; the Weather Magic still ate him like acid. He shuffled sideways and leaned against the chamber’s circular wall, his head viciously pounding. “I got no choice. Can’t afford to spend all night on it. I still got work to do, back at the Tower.”

  “Can’t it wait?”

  “No.”

  Gar busied himself shoving cloth, basin and potion back in the cupboard. Slammed its doors. “I know this is hard,” he said, his voice low. “But what would you have me do? I’m reading Durm’s books. I’m searching for a cure.”

  He pulled a face. “Read faster.”

  “I can’t! The books are old, Asher, recorded in ancient dialects, obscure codes! If I translate them incorrectly, if I let haste overcome scholarship, I’ll make a mistake, one that will kill you or me or everyone in Lur! Is that what you want?”

  “I want this to be over!” he retorted, goaded to desperation. “I want my life back the way it was before!”

  Gar turned on him. “Before what? Before when? There is no ‘before,’ Asher! There’s only now, from this minute to the next, holding on tight and hoping the sky doesn’t fall on our heads.”

  Asher stifled a groan. His bones were chalk, ready to snap at the smallest exertion. He’d left exhaustion behind days ago. “When we said a month, I thought: that ain’t such a long time. I can do that. But now I ain’t so sure. Right now an hour feels like forever.”

  “I know. I’m sorry,” said Gar. He was stricken with guilt. “Look. I’m supposed to draft a new Weather Schedule soon. There might be some arrangements I can change. Stretch things out a bit, give you more time between Workings.”