Awakened Mage

by Karen Miller

Spinning on his heel, chaotic with regret and sorrow and fury, he headed for the door.

  The prince said harshly, “I lied about Asher.”

  He stopped. Listened to his thudding, hammering heart. “Lied, sir?”

  Footsteps behind him. A gentle hand touching, tugging him round. The prince’s face was stark. No royal mask, no polished public presentation. Raw emotion only, with everything laid bare. He flinched.

  “What he told you was true. All of it,” the prince said, as softly as though they were in chapel. “I asked him to do magic.”

  His reply was automatic. “Olken have no magic.”

  The prince smiled sadly. “Asher does. Did. I can’t explain it, but it’s true. And he used it to protect this kingdom. When my own powers failed I gave him the Weather Magics myself, willingly. He never conspired to steal my crown. He was the truest subject a king could ever have. The truest friend. In every way that matters, Asher was innocent.”

  All his life a guardsman. He’d learned—thought he’d learned—to tell when truth was spoken. “But you renounced him!” he said, incredulous. “You signed the execution order yourself!”

  The prince nodded. “I had to. Even though I’d sworn to protect him, I had to sign his death warrant. If I refused, Conroyd said he’d slaughter your people. I believed him.”

  Could a living man be turned to stone? It felt like it. He swallowed, struggling against the pain in his throat, his chest. “He was innocent? But I killed him!”

  “No, Pellen,” the prince said. “The law killed him.”

  “It’s the same thing!”

  The prince looked to Darran, then. As though he were seeking advice... or absolution. The old man shrugged. “I think you must, sir. We’ve come too far not to.”

  The prince sighed. “You’re no murderer, Pellen. Asher isn’t dead. The man who lost his life last night was unknown to me. Asher lives, somewhere, and if we’re to save our kingdom from destruction you have to help me find him.”

  Orrick felt his legs give way. He stumbled sideways, fending off the hands stretched out to help him. Fetching up against a cold brick wall he pressed a hand across his face and fought to catch his ragged breath.

  “This is madness,” he muttered. “The rotten fruit of overwork. I must be dreaming.” He lowered his sheltering hand and looked at the prince. “Tell me I’m dreaming!”

  “If you are, Pellen, it’s a nightmare. And the rest of us are snared in it with you.” The prince reached inside his buttoned coat and pulled out a battered, leather-bound journal. It looked ancient. “This is Blessed Barl’s diary. Durm discovered it and hid its existence. It contains our long-lost magics ... and an incantation that opens a window in the Wall.”

  “A window? Your Highness—”

  “I know,” the prince said quickly. “I know how this sounds, but please, bear with me. I believe Durm used this spell.” His face twisted with bitterness and regret. “He was always a curious man. And an arrogant one. Convinced he was never in danger, no matter the risks he took.”

  Orrick stepped away from the wall and clasped his hands behind his back. Buried beneath confusion and bewilderment there was shame, that he’d let himself be so undisciplined as to show such open dismay. “Very well. A window. But what has that to do with Asher? With anything?”

  The prince slipped the journal back inside his coat. “Everything. When Durm opened that window in the Wall, I think something climbed through it after him and is here with us now, bent on malevolent destruction. I think it killed my family and wants to kill us all. That’s why I have to find Asher. He’s the only one with magic I can trust to fight against it.”

  “Against what, sir? Nobody knows what lies beyond the Wall! Nobody knows who lives there!”

  “We know who used to live there.”

  It took Orrick a moment to work out the prince’s meaning. When he did, he almost fell down. “Morg? Sir, you are raving!”

  Gar shook his head. “I wish I was. Pellen, Morg knew how to make himself immortal. Understand: he was a magician with powers we can’t begin to comprehend. The Doranen of Lur are mere shadows compared to our ancestors, and what they could do. Did do. It’s all in the diary and I tell you, it’s terrifying.”

  Was madness contagious? He was starring to believe the prince... “If you’re right—if Morg really is among us—how is it nobody’s noticed?”

  “Because he’s clever. He’s hiding.”

  “Hiding where?”

  The prince’s gaze dropped for a moment. He took a deep breath. Let it out. Looked up and answered. “Inside Conroyd Jarralt.”

  Orrick turned away, one fist pressed to his aching chest. Barl save him ... Barl save him... but he believed it Last night. In all the mayhem. He’d seen King Conroyd’s face as he demanded Asher’s beheading. Seen him afterwards, gloating over the body. Something inhuman and unnatural lurked there, deep inside his bones.

  The prince said softly, “I’m the last living member of House Torvig, Pellen. For hundreds of years my family has shed its blood for the keeping of this kingdom. By all that’s holy, in this sacred house of rest, before countless generations of my witnessing family, I swear, I swear I’ve told you nothing but the truth. Please. Will you help me?”

  Orrick stared at the ground. Time stopped, hanging on his answer.

  He looked up.

  “Yes, Gar. I’ll help you. And if it proves we’re wrong may Barl have mercy on our souls.”

  Ox Bunder looked up in surprise as Orrick walked back into the guardhouse. “Captain? Something wrong?”

  Only everything. Still reeling from the prince’s revelations, from his own mad decision to follow him blindly, break the law, free a prisoner, he called upon his twenty-eight years of guarding experience and showed the man nothing but a sheepish smile.

  “I tried to sleep but all my leftover paperwork kept tapping me on the shoulder,” he said. “You know how I am.”

  Ox grinned. “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “No trouble from the prisoner?”

  “No, Captain.”

  “Jesip’s still with him?”

  “Er...” Bunder looked discomfited. “No. You know his mother’s poorly? He just wanted to see if she’d spent the night all right. I didn’t see the harm, sir, he’s been on duty for nearly two days. I checked the prisoner myself not ten minutes ago and he was out to the world, snoring.”

  “I see. Well, I suppose that’s all right.” He headed for the rear door leading to the cells. His heart was pounding so hard he was amazed Bunder couldn’t hear it. “But I’ll have a quick look at him myself before I go upstairs. Carry on, Ox.”

  Praise Barl, the guardhouse’s other prison cells were empty, all impulse to petty criminalities swallowed by the enormous events of the past few weeks. He hurried along the cell-lined corridor to the room at the end where Asher had been briefly held. Where Matt now waited in equal danger. He opened the outer double-locked door—

  —and found the prisoner trying to hang himself with the torn-off sleeve of his shirt.

  “No, damn you! No!”

  With shaking hands he fumbled the keys from his belt, jammed the right one in the lock and wrenched the cell door wide open. The stable meister was on his knees, swaying at the end of his improvised noose, wheezing, choking, his battered face suffused with blood and turning purple.

  Orrick lunged at him. Tore frantically at the knot around his neck but had no hope of loosening it. Instead he got his shoulder under the man’s heaving chest and bellowed for Bunder.

  “Get me a knife!” he ordered as Ox skidded into the outer cell. Gaping, Ox bolted out again and returned moments later with a dagger. Together they freed the strangling prisoner.

  “Captain, captain ...” Bunder stammered, horrified.

  “Never mind that now, Bunder—we’ll talk about discipline later!” he growled, watching Matt’s face fade from purple to red. His mind raced, seeking a way to turn this near-disaster into success. It wasn’t easy. He
was the Captain of the City; he spent his time putting people into prison, not thinking of ways to help them escape.

  “This man should have a pother,” he said at last.

  “There’s a pothery two streets over,” said Bunder, eager to make amends. “I’ll—”

  He shook his head. “No. This is an important prisoner. He’d best be seen by the king’s own man. Go to the palace and fetch Nix here. But slowly*” he added as Bunder made a dash for the door. “After the hullabaloo last night the townsfolk don’t need to see you careering through the streets like a scalded cat. Walk there and walk back again. Like you’re out for a stroll. With a friend.”

  “Walk back?” said Bunder, confused. “But doesn’t the pother have a carriage?”

  “A very nice one, I believe, with royal bits and pieces painted all over it,” Orrick said. “Humor me, Ox. Walk. This City’s been in a ferment for far too long. It’s our job now to set a calm example.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Bunder, still confused but trained to the teeth. “I’ll be back with the pother directly.”

  But not too directly, Orrick hoped, as the sound of Bunder’s retreating footsteps diminished. Well. He’d bought himself some time. Now to spend it wisely...

  Matt was breathing more easily now, slumped on his side, his face almost human again. “You shouldn’t have stopped me, Captain,” he croaked, looking up through slitted eyes. “I’m going to die anyway.”

  Orrick glared. Dragged the fool upright and leaned him against the wall. As a precaution he picked up the dagger and stuck it through his belt. “Well done. You’ve almost ruined everything. Sit there and do nothing. I won’t be long.”

  Turning his back on Matt’s bewilderment he hurried to the rear of the guardhouse and opened the door. Beckoned to Darran, once more hiding in the shadows.

  “Hurry! One of my lads could return any moment!”

  Darran stared in alarm. “Where’s Matt?”

  “Inside. The damned fool tried to hang himself and besides, there’s his escape to be covered! Come in!”

  Wittering, Darran came. Matt’s swollen jaw dropped when he saw the prince’s secretary.

  “Darran? Are you another Circle member? Is Orrick?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Darran, kneeling beside him and speaking quickly. “Now hush up and listen. I’m getting you out of here. Prince Gar’s orders. The kingdom’s in danger and we need your help to save it.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Matt, rubbing at his bruised, chafed throat. “If you aren’t part of the Circle why—”

  Orrick kicked him, just hard enough to get his attention. “Can you take them to Asher?”

  Matt’s face stilled. “Asher’s dead.”

  “He’s not and we all know it. Do you know where to find him?”

  “Please, Matt,” Darran urged him as the stable meister continued silent. “This isn’t a trick, I promise. We’re trying to save you. Trust us, we’re your only hope. The kingdom’s only hope. His Highness is counting on you.”

  A riot of uncertainty in the injured man’s face. An agony of indecision. They were running out of time ...

  Orrick snatched the dagger from his belt. Hauled Matt up and onto his feet then shoved the weapon into his hand. “Stab me.”

  “What?”

  “No one will believe this unless I’m wounded! Stab me, you fool, and be quick about it! Do you want the king to find us? Could be he’s on his way!”

  Matt lifted the dagger in front of his face, looking at it as though he’d never seen one before. “Say I do it. Say I stab you. Then what?”

  “Then we run, Matt! To Asher!” said Darran, on his feet again. “His Highness is outside hidden in a donkey cart. We have to go now, man, before it’s discovered we’re missing from the Tower!”

  But Matt just shook his head, still dazed. “I can’t—I don’t know—”

  Orrick looked at Darran. “This won’t work, he’s addled with shock. You’ve got to get out of here, back to the Tower. Think of another way to—”

  “There is no other way!” said Darran. His face was flushed, his eyes alight with desperation. “Oh sweet Barl, forgive me!” he gasped. Snatched the dagger from Matt’s unresisting fingers and struck.

  Orrick choked as the blade sank deep into his shoulder. Magically tempered steel sliced muscle. Scraped bone. The pain was immediate. Shocking. Hot bright lights danced before his eyes and the small cell spun, sparkling like glimfire. Without his permission his knees buckled and he sagged to the floor.

  Darran’s hands were pressed to his face. “Oh dear ... oh dear...”

  Oh dear was right. There was sweat on his face, icy as melted snow. His shoulder was on fire. Damn. Who’d have thought such a stringy old man would have such strength in him? “Go,” he croaked. His right hand hovered over the jutting dagger hilt. If he pulled the damn thing out would he bleed to death right here on the floor? “Now. Flog that damned donkey till it drops in the road and don’t look back. Nix is on his way, I’ll be all right. Tell His Highness, good luck. Tell Asher, I’m sorry.”

  “Yes—yes—” said Darran, shaking, and took hold of Matt’s arm to drag him from the cell.

  Matt pulled free. “Wait.” His dazed confusion had cleared. Beneath the bruises and bloodstains he looked himself again, the calm and competent man who’d run a prince’s stables. “We’ll never get out of the City unrecognized.”

  “We might do!” cried Darran. “We must risk it!”

  “No,” said Matt, and turned to Darran. Spread his hands wide and pressed them to the old man’s face. “Stand still. This won’t take a moment... I hope.”

  Pounded with pain, Orrick watched as Matt’s battered face contorted and he lost his last color. Beneath his pressing hands Darran cried out, protesting.

  “What are you doing? Stop it! Stop it!”

  Matt lowered his hands. Staggered a little, and would have fallen if not for his shoulder pressed hard to the cell wall. “Did it work?” he muttered. “I’ve never done it before. Just had it done to me, once.”

  Shocked speechless, Orrick looked into Darran’s changed features. A moment earlier they had been thin. Straight-nosed and sharp-chinned. Familiar. Now Darran wore the face of a stranger ten years younger, placid and pouchy, with a bulbous nose and a spider-working of veins across his cheeks. He found his voice and whispered, disbelieving, “It worked. You’re disguised, Darran. With magic.”

  Darran gasped. “Barl have mercy! Not you too, Matt!”

  Still leaning on the cell wall Matt pressed his hands to his own face. Groaned aloud, a sound of extreme distress, and nearly slid to the floor, retching. When his hands fell away they revealed a second stranger.

  “It’s called a blurring,” he said hoarsely. His new face was gray and sweating. “But we’ll have to hurry. It won’t last long.”

  “Then go,” said Orrick fiercely. “Now!”

  They bolted. Alone and bleeding he sprawled face-up on the prison-cell floor. Before he could wonder if he’d done the right thing, the world around him turned scarlet, then black. His last clear thought, as consciousness left him, was something like a prayer.

  Sweet Blessed Barl... don’t let me be wrong.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Morg woke late in his unattended house, and for some little while indulged himself in the luxury of silence. Silence was an antidote to the memory of Holze’s insistent yammering...

  “Conroyd, you must show yourself the WeatherWorker in public. Conroyd, you must move into the palace. Conroyd, you must recall the lords and ladies now dallying in the country. Appoint a Privy Council... soothe the worried populace... decide upon an heir... name a Master Magician. Conroyd... Conroyd... Conroyd...”

  He intended to feed the cleric to his demons personally when at last the Wall came down.

  His regrettably unavoidable meeting with the man had lasted hours. Through it all he’d nodded and smiled and indicated approval, agreement, whatever was
required to bring the audience to an end. But it seemed Holze had been storing up an inexhaustible supply of opinions... and he couldn’t risk taking action. A swift and surreptitious examination of the prosing cleric’s mind showed him a man peculiarly proofed against easy tampering. More of Barl’s interference? He couldn’t tell. Didn’t care; in the end it would make no difference. With gritted teeth he’d survived the lecturing and so had Holze, barely, what he needed now was to bend his will towards the only thing that mattered: the next step in his undermining of Barl’s infernal Wall. That exquisite task completed, he would examine the stable meister taken by Orrick’s men after the execution and— The execution.

  Beneath his cosseting blankets Morg stretched with delight like a cat.

  Interfering, unexpected Asher was dead.

  Gar had wept; recollection of the mewling cripple’s grief bathed him in more pleasure, leaving him languorous and replete. He was aware, too, of Conroyd’s pleasure in that brutal death. Conroyd had hated the Olken with a passion nearly matching his own. Not that his docile prisoner said as much. Subdued at last, run out of words and curses, Conroyd sat silent in his cage now; but his feelings were as loud as any shout.

  The glow of sunlight behind the bedchamber’s drawn curtains reminded him the day was aging rapidly. He rose, bathed, dressed, summoned food from his cook-less kitchen and then rode Asher’s cowed stallion back to the Weather Chamber.

  Holze had been right about one thing, damn him: to allay suspicion he must show the people of Lur their expected weather. So he made it rain, but with the magic corrupted, the spell altered, so that every drop of water falling from the sky pulled free a thread of the tapestry binding together the bitch whore’s ancient barrier.

  Ancient... but not inunortal.

  Overhead, the golden Wall trembled. Shuddered. Staring through the Weather Chamber’s clear glass ceihng Morg laughed and laughed to see it. Rode away light-hearted towards the City Guardhouse where waited the prisoner Matt, ripe for plucking.

  But instead of the cripple’s former stable meister he found chaos.

  “It’s a nasty wound, Your Majesty,” Pother Nix informed him on the threshold of Orrick’s office. “The captain has lost considerable blood. He’ll mend, but—Your Majesty, he’s not ready for—Your Majesty, I must protest! My patient—”