The Innocent Mage

by Karen Miller

  But he couldn’t. So he put it back in its box and returned it to the cupboard. Briefly he considered sealing the doors with a killing ward, but discarded the notion. To do so might arouse unwanted curiosity; they were trusting fools, these lost Doranen. The king came here often, and was used to rummaging at will amongst Durm’s things. Going to another cupboard he extracted an empty glass globe and its stand and put them on the table. Then he sat back, gloating, and waited.

  At length the cripple stirred. Sat up. ‘Durm.’ He pressed his fists to his temples. ‘You should have warned me it would hurt like that. Fane said it was exhausting, but not that there’d be pain. I thought it would tear me apart … or turn me to ash.’

  Morg shrugged. ‘Such warnings are pointless. One man’s pain is another man’s pleasure, after all. Each Transfer is different.’

  The cripple shook his head. ‘I feel so strange. Did the Transfer work? For a moment it felt almost as though the Weather Magic wanted to … to reject me. Why would that be?’ He laughed, shakily. ‘Am I still not good enough?’

  ‘You are perfect,’ Morg said sharply. ‘But to put your mind at rest, let us try a small experiment. Here is an empty vessel. Cast your mind within the void and make it rain.’

  ‘I’m afraid,’ the cripple whispered.

  ‘You are a prince of royal House Torvig!’ thundered Morg. ‘Honour your father and make it rain!’

  The cripple reached for the clear globe. Held it before his eyes in silence, gaze unfocused as he searched the new knowledge within. Then he stirred. Stared into the globe’s vacant heart and spoke. The air within it churned. Thickened. Turned white. Grey. Black.

  Wept.

  ‘Look, Durm,’ the cripple breathed. There were tears in his eyes. On his cheeks. There was blood, a tiny trickle, but he didn’t heed it. ‘I made it rain …’

  The servants he passed in the corridors on his way to find Fane spoke to him, but he couldn’t hear them. He said something in return, ‘Good morning’ most probably, but he couldn’t hear himself. Could barely see their faces or remember their names.

  He’d made it rain.

  Blessed Barl preserve him, he’d made it rain, and his life would never be the same again.

  He found Fane in the palace solar, eating a solitary breakfast. The hovering servant bobbed a curtsey. He dismissed her and crossed the marble floor towards his sister.

  Without looking up from her plate she said coldly, ‘Go away.’

  He stopped. Frowned. ‘Fane …’

  She reached for her teacup. Sipped. Swallowed. Put it back in its saucer with a faint plink. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t know? Did you think I wouldn’t feel it?’

  He went to her and dropped to one knee beside her chair. ‘Fane, I’m sorry. It wasn’t my idea. I didn’t want the weather magic. I begged the king to let my promise stand. But the day we fought there was a scene in Privy Council. It was … awful. Accusations were made. Conroyd Jarralt—’

  ‘He made you break your word?’ Her face was pale, composed. She spoke calmly, with a vague air of disinterest. As she sliced a hothouse teshoe with her sharp little fruit knife her eyes never left his face. ‘What a bad man.’

  ‘I argued. I did. I told them I’d made you a promise. But it was all of them against me. Even Father agreed it had to be done. In the end, it came down to what’s best for the kingdom.’

  She popped a slice of teshoe into her mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. ‘I’m sure it did.’

  He put his hand on her arm. ‘Fane, I wasn’t lying. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t break my promise willingly. I had no choice.’

  She reached for a bread roll. The movement broke the contact of his fingers against her sleeve. ‘So you’d abdicate, would you, if it was decided you’d make the better WeatherWorker? You’d refuse the throne for my sake? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Yes!’ he cried. Remembered the rain. Cursed. ‘Perhaps. I don’t know.’ Frustrated, he stood and began to pace around the solar. ‘It might not be as easy as that. This can’t be about what you or I want, Fane. Our personal desires are nothing compared to the welfare of the kingdom. It all comes down to duty. You understand that better than anyone.’

  Fane finished tearing the bread roll into tiny pieces, selected one and smeared it with sweet butter. ‘Now I’m confused. It’s a simple question, Gar: would you abdicate, yes or no?’ Still watching him, she ate the bread.

  Gar stopped pacing. Returned to her side and again knelt on the chequered tile floor. ‘I … don’t think I could. Not if I were truly chosen. But, Fane, I swear, it won’t come to that. You are the superior magician, I have no doubt of it, you—’

  Fane sat back in her chair. Her eyes were very … polite. ‘So when you swore to me the crown was mine, only mine, always mine, what you really meant was, unless you decided you’d rather it was yours?’

  Barl save him. ‘No. I meant what I said, Fane. You have to believe that. I spat on it, remember?’

  She smiled. ‘I remember.’ Leaning forward, she spat on him. As the hot saliva trickled down his cheek she said, ‘And now we’re even.’

  He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the spittle. ‘Please, let’s talk about this. I want us to be close, Fane, I want us to be friends, I want—’

  ‘I don’t.’ She picked up her sharp little fruit knife and pointed its tip at him. Sunlight flashed upon the blade. It was a small knife, hardly lethal, but somehow it was worse than a hundred balls of flaming glimfire. ‘What I want is for you to go away. Now.’

  He stood. Tucked the soiled handkerchief back in his pocket. The knife was still pointing at him. ‘I can’t leave it like this, Fane.’

  Her eyes were glittering. With tears, with temper, with implacable hate. ‘I can.’

  He reached out his hand to her. ‘Fane … please …’

  With a shriek like a falcon swooping for the kill she lunged across the table. The knife caught him. Cut silk and skin. Spilled blood.

  He fled the solar, his wounded arm tucked inside his weskit where no-one could see it. The memory of her face chased him all the way back to the Tower.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  ‘D’ you mind?’ said Asher as his inkpot floated gently past his nose for the third time.

  Gar grinned, briefly. ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I do!’ Asher snatched the pot to safety. ‘I got work to finish here. Reports for Pellen Orrick don’t write ’emselves and—’

  ‘Would you like them to?’

  ‘What are you hangin’ around here like a bad smell for anyways? Ain’t you and Durm s’posed to be goin’ on a magical field trip or some such shenanigans?’

  ‘He’s been delayed. He’ll be along in due course.’

  Asher groaned. ‘Then why don’t you wait for ’im downstairs? No muckin’ about, Gar, I’m bloody drownin’ here.’

  Gar looked at the desk crowded with papers and parchment. ‘So I see.’

  With a sigh, Asher sat back in his chair. ‘Truth is, I don’t reckon I’ll manage much longer without a proper assistant. And not that bloody Willer! He’s as much use as tits on a bull.’

  Gar’s lips twitched. ‘All right. Find yourself an assistant you can work with, if there is such a creature. Offer them thirty trins a week.’

  ‘Twenty-five,’ said Asher, scowling. ‘No point givin’ a body ideas above his station, eh?’

  That made him laugh: something of a miracle. ‘Fine. I don’t really care. Just deal with it.’

  After a considering pause Asher said, ‘So. Is she talkin’ to you yet?’

  She. Fane. Gar rubbed the half-healed cut on his forearm and shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Aye, well … give her time,’ said Asher. Trying to sound confident. Failing. ‘She’ll come round.’

  ‘No, Asher,’ he replied sadly. Remembering her face. The knife. ‘Somehow I don’t think she will.’

  Time for a change of subject. ‘Well,’ said Asher, ‘now you’ve got your floati
n’ inkpot trick down a treat, when d’you reckon they’ll let you out in public to impress the locals?’

  Gar shrugged, feigning indifference. ‘Soon.’

  ‘Which means when? Tomorrow? Next week? Next month?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. All Durm will say is soon. I think he wants to be certain I’ll not disgrace him.’

  ‘Bugger what he wants,’ said Asher, snorting. ‘Do you feel ready?’

  Gar laughed nervously. ‘Good question. Sometimes I think yes, and other times …’ He shook his head. ‘Durm’s right. I must be ready. I must have complete control of my power. Revealing my transformation prematurely would be disastrous. This isn’t just about me, Asher. You know the political ramifications of this change. For most of my life I’ve been an object of pity. Of scorn. An embarrassing aberration. For most of my life I’ve been more or less invisible, at least to my own race.’

  ‘You’re forgettin’ Lady Scobey.’

  Gar shuddered. ‘If only I could. You know, if there’s a drawback to my miracle it’s knowing she’s going to redouble her efforts to match me with her wretched daughter.’

  Grinning, Asher nodded. ‘Never mind. She won’t be the only one. You’ll have your pick of blonde beauties now, I reckon. Lucky bastard.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gar, his smile sly. ‘I confess the thought isn’t entirely unpalatable. But my search for a bride will have to wait, I’m afraid. First I must leap the hurdle of my past and gain the confidence and trust of my peers. They know me only as a magical failure. As a cripple. I’ll have one chance to show them that’s no longer true. One chance … and if I stumble, I’ll not get a second.’

  ‘You worried about that?’

  Gar hesitated, then flicked his fingers. ‘Of course not. Not really. I just—’

  He was interrupted by a sharp knock on the open office door. Willer. Stiff-necked and stuffy, as usual. ‘Your Highness,’ he said, bowing. ‘Their Majesties are here, and desirous of speaking with you.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Gar. ‘Show them into the library, then, and—’

  ‘Forgive me, sir. They’re outside. In a carriage.’

  ‘Oh. All right. Thank you, Willer.’ Willer bowed and retreated, and Gar raised his eyebrows at Asher. ‘Coming?’

  ‘You don’t listen, do you? All that bloody magic’s bunged up your lugholes worse than earwax. I got work to do.’

  Gar clapped him on the shoulder. ‘It’ll still be here five minutes from now. Come on. You need some fresh air. In case you hadn’t noticed you’re getting as persnickety as Darran.’

  The royal carriage was halted at the Tower’s front entrance. It wasn’t one of the official carriages, enclosed and groaning beneath the weight of gilt and hand-carved curlicues, but the open touring affair used on the day of Asher’s parade. Sprawled on its crimson leather seats were his father, his mother and Fane, splendid in brocades, leather and wool. His parents were talking, laughing; Fane was silent, her expression as smooth as glass. Gar tried to smile at her as he came down the sandstone steps but she refused to meet his gaze. He felt a small pain between his ribs, but kept it from his face as he turned the smile towards their parents instead.

  ‘There he is!’ said Dana, and beckoned him closer with a gloved hand. ‘Gar, my love, we’re off to Salbert’s Eyrie for a family picnic. Just us, nobody else. We had the whole area closed so we could enjoy some privacy. Conjure yourself a warmer coat, because the weather’s definitely getting chilly. One for Asher, too. There’s more than enough room in the carriage for him and, besides, he’s practically family as well.’

  Gar tried to catch Fane’s eye again, and again was unsuccessful. Thwarted, he glanced at the cloudless sky. A family picnic? It was a perfect day for it, certainly. He wished he could go; behind his mother’s bright smile and determined gaiety there was strain and a feverish unhappiness.

  ‘Mama, it’s a charming idea, truly, but—’

  ‘Come on, Gar,’ the king said coaxingly. ‘The snow will be here before long and there’ll be no more picnics for months.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I realise that, but—’

  With a roll of his eyes, Borne turned to Asher. ‘Well, sir? What about you?’

  Asher bowed. ‘I’d surely come if I could, Your Majesty. Trouble is, Meister Glospottle’s still got problems with his piss, y’see, and he’s waitin’ on me to fix ’em for him.’

  ‘And can you?’ said the queen. ‘I’m most anxious for his difficulties to be resolved, Asher.’

  Another bow. ‘I be doin’ my best, Your Majesty. But it seems there be more to Meister Glospottle’s piss problem than meets the eye.’

  ‘I see,’ said the king after a pause. ‘Well, far be it from me to come between you and Meister Glospottle’s …’ A wicked grin. ‘Problems. Gar, must I make this a royal command?’

  ‘Even if you did, I’d have to refuse. I’m due to meet with Durm at any moment. My studies—’

  ‘Are swallowing you alive,’ said Borne. ‘Barl knows we’ve hardly seen hide nor hair of you these past long weeks, Gar. There’s more to life than magic. Family is important too.’

  Gar couldn’t help himself. For the third time he looked at Fane. This time she let a spasm of emotion cross her face. His heart sank. ‘Yes, I know that, sir, but—’

  ‘But pleasure,’ a new voice said urbanely, ‘needs often take a back seat to duty.’

  ‘Durm!’ said Borne, startled, and craned his neck. ‘Where did you spring from? I swear you move more and more like a cat every day.’

  Standing beside the carriage horses’ heads, Morg smiled. Glossy brown beasts, they were, with perfect paces and gentle eyes. Reaching up a casual hand he stroked the nearest soft nose. ‘Did I hear you aright, Majesty? You’re bound on a picnic?’

  ‘To Salbert’s Eyrie,’ said Dana. ‘Before the snows come. Will you join us?’

  ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure,’ said Morg, fingers sliding up and down the horse’s nose. Perfect, perfect, so wonderfully perfect. ‘Salbert’s Eyrie is an ideal place for a picnic, but alas, I must decline. His Highness and I still have much work to do. Another day, perhaps. But don’t let us detain you any longer on such a superb morning … and do think of us slaving away as you quaff your wine and nibble the dainties you’ve brought in your picnic basket.’ He sighed. ‘Life is so cruel, isn’t it?’

  There was laughter as he pulled a mock-sorrowful face. Lifting his other hand, smiling, he ensured he was touching both horses. Power flowed through his fingers. The horses’ liquid brown eyes flared scarlet. He stepped back. ‘Mind your animals, driver,’ he admonished the coachman as the horses snorted and pinned their ears back, heads tossing.

  Borne looked from the cripple to the lout and shook his head in sorrow. ‘I can see your minds are quite made up. I confess I’m disappointed, but not surprised. I warn you, though, next time we really won’t take no for an answer.’

  ‘As His Majesty commands,’ said Morg, and moved to join the prince at the foot of the Tower steps. ‘Next time.’

  ‘Drive on then, Matcher,’ said Borne. The coachman picked up his reins and shook his whip and the carriage rolled forward as the horses leaned into their harness.

  Morg looked around as Asher came down the rest of the steps. ‘You should go,’ the lout said to the prince in an undertone. ‘When you thought he was dead you’d have given anythin’ to spend just one more day with him. Now here’s a day bein’ handed to you on a silver platter and you’re turnin’ it down. For what? For magic? That’s mad. He ain’t goin’ to live forever, Gar. Go.’

  Frozen, the cripple stared at the gravel beneath his feet. ‘You’re right,’ he whispered. ‘I’m a fool.’

  ‘Just remember,’ the lout added, ‘you got that meetin’ with Matt this afternoon, about this season’s two year olds. So don’t go gettin’ carried away with the scenery and whatnot.’

  The prince looked up. ‘It’s a picnic, not an expedition. I’ll be back in time, don’t fret. And tell
Darran where I’ve gone, will you? He’ll fuss, otherwise.’ He turned and pulled an apologetic face. ‘Sorry, Durm. Studies are cancelled for today.’ Then he sprang after the carriage, shouting. ‘Wait! Wait!’

  As the carriage stopped and the king turned round in his seat, Morg rested speculative eyes on the lout. ‘Well, well, well,’ he murmured. ‘What a meddlesome young man you are.’ And could have killed him with such pleasure …

  Defiant, stiff-necked, the lout stared back. ‘It’s only one day. He can put aside his studies for one day. Sir.’

  ‘As you say,’ he said, smiling thinly. ‘It’s only one day.’

  Seated now in the carriage, the cripple leaned out and waved an arm. ‘Durm! Come on!’ he called. ‘There’s no point in you staying behind now!’

  ‘No,’ Morg agreed under his breath. ‘There’s no point at all.’ He waved an acquiescent hand. ‘I surrender, sir! Your persuasive powers have overcome my better judgement. To Salbert’s Eyrie we go!’

  Walking slowly, because above all things Durm was a dignified man, Morg closed the distance between himself and the royal carriage, his mind turning over and over as he rearranged his important plans.

  Again.

  Soon, very soon, he would have to arrange a special reward for the Olken lout Asher.

  The carriage bowled along through the lush open countryside, heading for picturesque Salbert’s Eyrie lookout. As the horses shied, plunging, Borne spoke over his shoulder to the coachman. ‘The team seems fresh today, Matcher!’

  ‘That they do, Your Majesty,’ Matcher replied, forearms rigid as he grasped the reins. ‘Don’t know what’s got into them and that’s a fact.’

  ‘Must be all this crisp autumn air,’ Borne said. ‘Mind how you go, won’t you?’

  ‘Certainly will, Your Majesty.’

  Seated opposite him, the queen tipped her face to the sun and sighed. ‘Oh, it feels so good to be outside. Do you know I’ve done nothing but chair committee meetings for nearly a week? I declare I don’t know how those women can be so staid. That Etienne Jarralt—’