The Innocent Mage

by Karen Miller

  ‘Certainly,’ said Borne. And smiled. And flicked his fingers in fond, unsuspecting farewell.

  The fool.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  He found the cripple in the Tower’s foyer, conversing with Nix. No fool, the pother excused himself and withdrew. Since protocol dictated that Durm bow to the prince, Morg lowered his chin, briefly. ‘Good morning, Your Highness. I hope your health remains robust?’

  ‘Certainly,’ replied the cripple. He looked wary. ‘Nix was here to see Asher.’

  Ah yes. The Olken hero. Morg smothered a sneer; it was important he gained the weakling’s trust. ‘Still not recovered, then? I’m sorry to hear it. The kingdom owes him a great debt.’

  The cripple’s wariness eased. ‘Indeed. And when he’s on his feet again – Barl grant it be soon, now – the debt shall be paid. Durm, what brings you here? Is something wrong?’

  He smiled. ‘Not … precisely. Shall we walk?’

  To his and Durm’s surprise, the cripple took the news well. ‘I’m sorry, of course,’ he said as he was circumspectly guided towards the Old Palace. ‘Sorrier than you’ll ever know. But I can’t say I wasn’t expecting it. A discovery like this – it’s too dangerous. His Majesty is absolutely correct in his decision. I consider myself fortunate to be left with any books at all.’

  ‘Which is why I have brought you back here now,’ said Morg, halting before the door that would lead them, eventually, to his bitch lover’s long-hidden chamber. ‘I thought perhaps you and I might take a few moments to look over one or two more shelves. See if there’s not something particularly splendid for you to add to your collection.’

  ‘Are you sure? Does His Majesty know that—’

  ‘His Majesty trusts me, Your Highness,’ said Morg. ‘And so should you. You used to, once upon a time.’

  ‘Once upon a time,’ the cripple replied, ‘you thought I was my father’s son and that together we’d work great magics.’ Then he shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. Of course I trust you, Durm.’

  In silence, they continued to the library.

  ‘It’s such a pity,’ the cripple sighed, wandering among the bookshelves, touching their spines with foolish, doting fingers. ‘Who knows what grand histories of old Dorana are hidden here? What fabulous tales of those glorious long-dead days I’ll never get to read. I’m going to spend the rest of my life wondering. Mourning, really.’

  Morg swung the chamber door shut with a nod. ‘No, you won’t. Eunuch.’

  The cripple stopped. Stared. ‘I’m sorry … what did you just call me?’

  ‘Eunuch,’ he repeated politely. ‘It means “impotent one”. A man bereft of the means by which to perform. Agreed, there is a slight contextual difference, but the spirit of the word still applies. Magically speaking, little princeling, you are limp.’

  The look on the cripple’s face was worth quite a lot of the aggravation his treacherous slut was causing him. ‘I think you must be unwell,’ the prince said with great care. ‘I suggest you see Pother Nix immediately, and I’ll forget this ever happened.’

  ‘Well … you’re half right.’ With a casual flick of his fingers he froze the witless natterer where he stood. ‘Grand histories of old Dorana. You cretin,’ he sneered, and felt contempt twist his borrowed face. ‘There is nothing grand about those long-dead days! The dynastic squabbling, the interhouse rivalries, the needless shedding of blood. Politics for its own sake. No thought for the purity of our people, no consideration for the future. All they cared about was power for personal aggrandisement. The greatness of our race, the fulfilment of our destiny, meant nothing to them. Nothing! They were fools, your ancestors, every last one of them, and Barl the most foolish of all. Did she think I would stand idly by and watch our race tear itself to pieces like a pack of rabid dogs? She said she loved me. How could she love me, yet know me so little?’

  The cripple did not answer. Empty of thought, of feeling, a blank sheet of parchment waiting patiently for the pen, it stood tranquilly before him.

  ‘And you,’ he went on, bile and spite scalding. ‘You think you’re safe here? You think it couldn’t happen to you? Are you deaf, then, to the growls in the throat of that dog on the Privy Council? You think Jarralt and the rest of his relatives are without ambition? That they don’t nurse dreams of crowns and palaces and the crackling fire of Weather Magic? Hah! Of course they do … thanks to you. You blotted the family copybook, boy. You’re the crack in your father’s armour. The lever by which Conroyd Jarralt would tilt your world on its axis if he could. Tilt and tilt and tilt until it tumbled, and the sky rained fire on all your pretty heads. You think Trevoyle’s Schism was bad? Little eunuch, it pales in comparison with the bloodshed I’ve seen. I stood on top of the tallest tower in all of old Dorana and watched your forebears melt the flesh from each other’s bones. Boil brothers’ eyes in their cracking sockets. They turned their mansions into charnel-houses and their children into charcoal. That is your grand Doranen history. Your glorious past. Your grim future. It’s a good thing I’m here, little crippled princeling. I’ve come to save you from yourselves.’

  It came as a shock to realise that he was panting. That there was sweat on his brow and his borrowed hands were trembling. He took a deep breath, then spat it out.

  ‘Your precious Wall is offensive to me.’ He closed in on the cripple to rest Durm’s reluctant fingers upon his waiting shoulders. ‘The time has come for it to fall.’

  Leaning close, he pressed spittle-flecked lips to the cripple’s smooth forehead. Breathed words into the lax body beneath his hands. He felt the muscles leap. Felt the sizzle and swish of the magic as it breached the body’s shield, the skin, and raced through blood and sinew.

  Brighter than any glimfire ever conjured; colder than any winter ever called: the imprint of Durm’s lips burned blue above the bridge of the prince’s nose. Burned … burned … and faded.

  Morg turned away. Began sorting through the books piled on the chamber’s old desk. A moment later, the cripple stirred.

  ‘I’m sorry, did you say something, Durm? I’m afraid I wasn’t listening.’

  ‘It was nothing, Your Highness,’ said Morg, and gently smiled. ‘Nothing at all.’

  When Asher finally drifted to the surface of his dream-soaked sleep it was to see Dathne sitting in the chair beside his bed. She looked almost serene. Her hair was briskly restrained in a plait, laying bare the pure, sharp lines of her face. She was knitting. Something pink and fluffy, which was so unlike her he thought for a moment he must still be lost in fancies.

  He felt his heart crack open and all his throttled feelings for her come pouring out.

  Glancing up, she saw his open eyes. ‘Well, well, well,’ she said, tart as fresh lemon. ‘If it’s not Prince Lazybones himself.’ Without waiting for an answer she put down her knitting and picked up a little silver bell from his bedside table. Then she went to his bedchamber door, opened it and tinkled the bell into the corridor.

  A maid appeared. Cluny. ‘Yes’m?’ she asked.

  ‘Go and tell whoever needs to know it that Asher is awake.’

  Cluny squealed. ‘Oh, yes’m!’

  Dathne closed the chamber door on the sound of Cluny’s feet pounding down the spiral staircase and tinkled her way back to the chair by his bed. Replaced the bell on his bedside table but didn’t pick up her knitting. Instead she sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap and frowned at him.

  ‘We parted badly, Asher, you and I,’ she said in that brusque, forthright way he’d come to treasure. ‘As much my fault as yours. You took me by surprise. More than a year we’ve known each other, and you never once said anything about … feelings.’

  He found his voice: it felt tentative. ‘You expecting an apology?’

  ‘No. We all have our secrets. But here’s the thing.’ Still frowning, she smoothed her blue wool skirt over her knees. ‘I don’t love you, Asher. I don’t love anyone. But that doesn’t mean we can’t be fr
iends.’

  He laughed, though he was anything but amused. How many different pains were there in this world? And was he going to have to feel all of them? ‘Don’t it?’

  ‘Not to me. Of course I can’t speak for you, but I’d like to think you felt the same. We’ve been good friends till now, haven’t we? I see no reason to lose that.’ She hesitated then, and for once looked uncertain. ‘I don’t want to lose that.’

  His breathing hitched, air catching in his chest. He wanted to reach his hand to her. Touch her. Friendship wasn’t nearly enough, but if it was all she had to give him … and mayhap in time he could convince her otherwise. Teach her to trust his heart … and her own. ‘My da died.’

  Her frown softened. ‘And you’re shunned. Forbidden the coast and all eight fishing communities. I know. I’m sorry.’

  He didn’t know what to say to that. Was afraid if he tried to speak, tears would drown the words. ‘How long since I got back?’ he asked when enough time had passed.

  ‘This is the seventh morning since you fell ill.’ She skimmed his skin with her cool hand and nodded, satisfied. ‘Do you still hurt?’

  For a moment he was confused. Why would he hurt? Then he remembered. His beaten back. His punished body after all that desperate riding. Great waves of furious heat and freezing cold, sweeping him from head to toe as fever claimed him. Closing his eyes he searched himself, and discovered nothing but a lingering lethargy. ‘No.’

  She nodded, smiling. ‘Good.’

  He looked at her again. Devoured her face with his eyes. She flushed, a small tide of colour washing over her cheeks, but she didn’t look away. He lifted an eyebrow. ‘So. Have I missed anythin’ exciting?’

  She told him. Details of the damaged City. All the repairs, and the official Day of Thanksgiving: wasn’t he sorry he’d slept through that? No, not really. The books discovered in the deserted Old Palace. His Highness was like a pig in mud. ‘Aye, I’ll bet,’ said Asher, rolling his eyes.

  ‘And Westwailing?’ he asked when she was finished. ‘Is everything all right there now?’

  ‘It is according to Darran,’ she said. ‘He and Willer got back safely the day before yesterday. The rest of the expedition is following on.’

  Asher scowled. Bloody Willer. Now if he’d gone arse over earholes into the harbour …

  She smiled. ‘And your things, and all your money, which the king sent down to the coast for you – they’re safely back.’

  He could only shake his head. ‘How do you know so much?’

  ‘I make it my business.’

  ‘So what caused the storm in the first place?’

  Dathne shrugged. ‘In a nutshell, the king’s illness. He was lost in fever. Worried about the prince. The Weather Magics followed the path of his thoughts. And because he was delirious and couldn’t control his own power or the way it manifested, we got a storm. It’s tragic, but it’s nobody’s fault.’ She pulled a face. ‘The king has been distraught. The minute he was allowed out of bed he went to the City Barlschapel and spent the night on his knees, praying for those who died, and after that he joined in the repairs. I hear Pother Nix was furious, and the queen, but His Majesty refused to yield.’

  Asher shifted on his pillows. ‘He’s a grand man, is Borne. We’re lucky he didn’t die.’

  ‘You’ll get no argument from me,’ Dathne agreed. Then she grinned. ‘There’s something else as well. Although probably I shouldn’t tell you. Probably the prince will want to tell you himself when he gets here.’

  There were suspicious glints of mischief in her eyes. He mistrusted Dathne’s mischief, heartily. ‘You tell me now.’

  ‘No, no,’ she said, laughing. ‘He’ll be cross as two sticks if I spoil the surprise.’

  ‘Dathne—’ he started, but broke off because the chamber door flew open and Gar strode into the room. Dathne slid off her chair and curtseyed.

  ‘Barl save me from all that goes bump in the night!’ the prince exclaimed, stopping at the foot of the bed. ‘It’s about damned time you woke up!’

  For a moment Asher couldn’t speak. Hollow-cheeked and feverish, Gar looked like a man driven to his limit. His crumpled silk shirt was splotched with ink stains and his fine wool breeches had a tear across one knee. ‘Barl save you, all right! You look bloody dreadful, Gar. What’ve you been doing?’

  ‘Fretting for you,’ said Gar, and laughed. There was a shrill edge to the sound and his eyes were wild. ‘No. Sorry. I’ve been working my fingers to the bone fulfilling your duties as well as mine and I have to say I’m well sick of it. When are you getting up?’

  Asher worked his way upright and rested his shoulderblades against the bedhead. ‘Dathne said you found some mouldy ole books? Bet you’ve had your nose stuck in ’em day and night without resting and that’s what’s got you lookin’ like death on a toasting fork.’

  Another grating laugh. ‘All right, all right. I confess,’ Gar said. ‘I have been burning a smidgin of midnight oil translating some mouldy ole books, as you so disrespectfully call them.’ He turned to Dathne and pretended displeasure. ‘Stealing my thunder, are you, Dathne? I hope you didn’t tell him about that other matter!’

  Dathne curtseyed again. ‘No, Your Highness.’

  ‘I should think not!’ Gar rubbed his hands together as though he were trying to start a fire.

  ‘When was the last time you slept?’ asked Asher.

  ‘Who needs sleep?’ said Gar, derisive. ‘Besides, you’ve been snoring enough for the both of us. Now let’s stop bleating about me, shall we? Asher, I have a surprise for you. You’ll never guess what it is.’

  Asher pulled a face. ‘Don’t think I want to.’

  ‘All right then, I’ll tell you. There’s to be a parade in your honour.’

  He stared at Dathne, horrified. She shrugged. He stared at Gar again, still horrified. The silly prat was grinning like a loon. ‘A what?’

  ‘If you don’t stop scowling like that your face is going to shatter,’ said Gar. ‘And anyway, nothing you can say will make a difference. Their Majesties insist upon a parade so a parade there will be. Darran’s been sweating blood over the final details ever since his return. We’ve just been waiting for you to wake up. It’ll start here at the Tower and go all the way through the City, along every main thoroughfare. What do you think about that, eh?’

  ‘I think you be clean out of your pretty yellow head!’ said Asher, choking. ‘A parade? I don’t want a bloody parade!’

  ‘Well, want it or not, you’re getting one,’ Gar replied. ‘So I suggest you start practising your smiling and waving.’

  Asher slid back down the bed and pulled the blankets over his face. Pulled them away again and said, despairingly, ‘But why?’

  Some of the frenetic animation died out of Gar’s expression. ‘Why do you think? Because you saved my life, you fool.’

  With the dregs of his dwindling strength Asher tugged a pillow from behind his head. ‘Well, if I’d known it’d mean a bloody parade I’d have damned well let you drown!’ And he threw the pillow as hard as he could at Gar’s fatuously smiling face.

  Shortly afterwards Pother Nix interrupted the ensuing lively discussion by arriving with his basket of pills and potions and demanding privacy for himself and his patient.

  ‘Waving and smiling, Asher, remember?’ said Gar, retreating. ‘Both must be perfect. Darran insists upon it.’

  Asher glowered. ‘Ha.’

  ‘Come and see me later, if you’re able. I’ll be working in the library.’

  ‘Ha.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re mended,’ said Dathne as she stowed her knitting in her string bag. ‘I’ll look for you in the Goose at week’s end, same as usual, shall I?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Asher.

  She smiled, hefting the straps of the bag onto her bony shoulder. ‘Definitely. Unless I see you in the parade first, of course.’

  And then she was gone, laughing, and it was just him and the damn bone-botherer. Nix p
ronounced him sound in wind and limb, which he knew already, then made him drink another damn potion that put him right back to sleep.

  When he woke again it was late afternoon and he was alone. For some small time he lay there unmoving. Thinking. About Da. Jed. His brothers. His life. About decisions, and choices, and who controlled who.

  About how that was all going to change.

  Zeth and the rest were due a few unpleasant surprises.

  And with that settled he realised he was suddenly sick of pillows and blankets. Cautiously, expecting his legs to fold like a newborn foal’s at any moment, he clambered out of bed. His legs held. Amazing. Somebody had left a bowl of fresh fruit on the table. He ate a couple of teshoes and an apple as he wandered around his apartment, just to see if his legs would still take him from here to there and back again without collapsing. They did. He felt fine. Whatever Nix had put in that potion, it had worked a treat. His head was clear, his body free of pain, and he was ready to brave the world beyond his bedchamber. So he found some fresh clothes, pulled them on and left his rooms.

  The first person he saw when he reached the Tower lobby was Darran. Looking like a stork on its way to a funeral, same as usual, all black plumage and long spindly legs. He halted abruptly as Asher stepped off the last staircase tread.

  ‘Asher.’ He moved closer, knobbly fingers clasped in front of him. ‘You have Pother Nix’s leave to be out and about, do you?’

  Asher rolled his eyes. ‘Aye, I be feelin’ ever so much better, Darran. Thanks for askin’. I be touched. Honest.’ He headed for the doors.

  ‘Asher, wait!’

  Sighing, Asher waited. ‘What?’

  Darran darted a quick, hunted look about the empty lobby and came closer still. The ole fool’s wrinkly throat was working like he’d swallowed an orange whole and couldn’t get it down. ‘I want a word with you.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘You saved His Highness’s life.’

  Asher raised his hands palm out. ‘Darran, if this is about that stupid parade, you’re wastin’ your breath. I were asleep when Gar and his folks dreamed up that little bit of madness so you can’t blame me.’