The Innocent Mage

by Karen Miller

  ‘Ha,’ said her husband. ‘I’ll gladly swap you the lord for the lady.’

  Dana sniffed. ‘No, thank you.’

  The cripple considered his father. ‘He’s not still complaining, is he?’

  ‘No more than usual,’ said the king with a dismissive flick of his fingers. ‘It’s all right. Conroyd can’t help himself. He’s exactly as your mother described him: a dog with a bone. Either he’ll bury it and forget where it is, or he’ll chew it to pieces and there’ll be an end to the discussion.’

  ‘With any luck,’ said the cripple, disdainful, ‘he’ll chew it and choke.’

  ‘I think,’ his sister said distantly, ‘you should be kinder to him. I don’t care what any of you say, he’s not a bad man.’ She was seated with her back to the coachman, beside her mother, curled up in the corner of the wide touring carriage. Her hair was knotted in loops and braids on the top of her head and she was staring with intense concentration at the countryside flashing by. ‘It’s not his fault his ancestor lost Trevoyle’s Trials and his house never got to breed up kings. He’s a powerful magician. He might have made a very good Weather Worker.’

  There was an awkward pause, filled with the pounding of hooves on the roadway and the bouncing creak of the carriage. Morg let his eyelids droop and watched the girl from under his lashes. She was looking very beautiful this morning. A pity the smooth perfection of her forehead was marred by a frown. Tension, arising from resentment of her brother. Foolish child. Life was far too short to waste in petty squabbling. It was a shame she’d never realised it.

  As the carriage picked up a little more speed, Borne again spoke up. ‘For the love of Barl, Matcher, must I repeat myself? Slow those damned horses down!’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ said Matcher, and once more hauled on the reins.

  Morg let his gaze drift over the greenery by the side of the road and smiled. Beside him, the cripple shifted on the red leather seat then leaned forward a little, trying to catch his sister’s attention. ‘I’ve not seen you for days, Fane,’ he said. ‘How do your studies progress?’

  She sat there like a maiden carved from ice. ‘Satisfactorily.’

  Her brother nodded. Morg could feel the effort in him as he tried to chip away her frozen façade. Fool. Didn’t he know by now he was wasting his time? The girl was just like Barl: a beautiful heartbreaker. ‘That’s good,’ the cripple said, trying to sound encouraging. ‘What incantations are you working on?’

  ‘My own.’

  The queen tried to smile. Took her daughter’s hand in hers and squeezed. ‘Come, darling, you can tell us more than that, can’t you? I’d like to hear what you’ve been doing, too.’

  Fane pulled her hand free. ‘I thought we were leaving work behind today.’

  ‘Don’t be rude, Fane,’ the king said, mildly enough, but with an undercurrent of warning.

  The girl’s eyes flashed cold fire. ‘I’m not rude. I just don’t want to talk about it.’ Her gaze flickered to the cripple, then elsewhere. ‘Why don’t you ask Gar what he’s been doing? I’m sure that’s much more exciting.’

  The king’s tired face contracted. ‘Stop it. I’ll have no quarrelling, is that clear? This is a family outing, something to be enjoyed, and I won’t have your tiresome jealousy spoiling it.’

  The cripple lifted one hand. Placating, as always. Pathetic weakling. ‘Father. Please. She’s a right to be hurt. Angry. Willingly or not, I broke my promise to her and—’

  Fane sat up. ‘I don’t want you defending me.’

  ‘Please,’ said the queen. ‘Please can we just—’

  ‘Enough!’ Borne snapped. ‘How many times must I say it? I won’t tolerate a divided house! I refuse to leave that as my legacy to this kingdom. Not after a lifetime of sacrifice and service. Gar, Fane – one of you will be WeatherWorker after me and the other won’t. If you refuse to accept this then anarchy will again stalk this land. In days long hence, once a new generation’s blood has soaked into the soil, they’ll call it Borne’s Schism. Or Gar’s. Or Fane’s. Is that what you want? Is that how you wish our house to be remembered?’

  ‘Oh, please, let’s not argue,’ cried the queen. There was a treacherous break in her voice and her eyes were sheened with tears. ‘It’s such a lovely day. Can’t we leave politics behind us for a few hours and enjoy each other’s company? I’m so tired of magic and WeatherWorking and worry! Of late I find myself profoundly sorry that Conroyd Jarralt’s wretched ancestor didn’t win Trevoyle’s bloody Trials! Then he could be the one with the weight of the kingdom on his shoulders and I could look forward to night after night of sleep unriven by nightmares!’

  After a short, stricken silence: ‘My love …’ Borne took his wife’s hand and pressed it to his lips. ‘Forgive me. Forgive us all. These past weeks have been hardest on you, I think. You’re so busy being strong for everyone around you … and we’re so used to counting on that strength … it’s selfish and unfair and we should all know better.’ He kissed her hand again. ‘I should know better.’

  ‘As should I,’ the cripple said quietly. ‘I’m sorry, Mama.’

  ‘So am I,’ his sister added, thawing slightly.

  Dana put her arm around the girl and hugged her, hard. ‘I know, darling. It’s all right. We’ve had a lot on our plates lately. That’s why today is so important. We must smile. Laugh. Model ourselves on ladies best not mentioned and be frivolous!’ She flashed a teasing look at her husband’s Master Magician. ‘Even you, Durm! I am determined that before the day is out I shall see a daisy chain around your neck!’

  Morg smiled. ‘I very much doubt it, madam.’

  She smiled back, refusing to believe him. Foolish woman. A cautiously companionable silence fell; at length they reached the gated turn-off for the Eyrie. Slowed. Stopped to greet the guards on duty, posted to turn away lesser mortals who might interfere with royalty at play. The horses tossed their heads and fretted, straining in their harness. When the coachman released his hold on their bits they leapt, and the carriage rattled onwards.

  ‘Look,’ said Fane, pointing. On their left, flashing by as the horses’ long strides ate up the road, a painted sign. Welcome to Salbert’s Eyrie.

  ‘Nearly there,’ said Dana, and threaded her arm through her daughter’s. ‘Oh, we’re going to have a wonderful day. I can feel it in my bones. How long is it since we picnicked together at the Eyrie? It must be nearly a year!’ Turning a little, she raised her voice. ‘Matcher, Matcher, do slow down! The countryside is whipping past at such a rate we can scarcely see it, let alone enjoy it!’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty, sorry, Your Majesty!’ said Matcher, and leaned back hard against the horses’ iron mouths, grunting with the effort. Morg stared at his straining back, his heaving shoulders. He was wasting his time. The horses’ minds were a ferment of madness now. No power under the sun could stop them, save his.

  It was nearly time. Shifting a little in his seat, Morg readied himself. Regretted, briefly, Durm’s fleshy and ponderous body. Still. He had power enough to overcome the minor impediment. He had power enough for anything …

  Out of patience entirely, Borne raised his voice. ‘The Eyrie isn’t far from here, Matcher. Stop the carriage and we’ll walk the rest of the way. It’s a view to be savoured, not rushed at. You can take the team back to the stables and return for us this afternoon. Perhaps the extra mileage will cool the heat from their heels.’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ said Matcher, and signalled his team to drop out of their spanking trot and back to a suitably sedate walk.

  Nothing happened.

  ‘Matcher!’ Borne said sharply. ‘I said stop here!’

  The coachman fetched a desperate glance over his shoulder. ‘I heard you, sire! It’s the horses that ain’t listening!’

  And just as though the words were a signal the spanking trot became a lurching canter, and then a pounding gallop.

  ‘For Barl’s sake, Matcher, what are you doing?’ Borne shouted. ‘The Eyr
ie, man! The Eyrie! Stop those bloody horses now, before it’s too late!’

  ‘I’m trying!’ Matcher sobbed. ‘I can’t!’

  ‘Then turn them off the road! Break all their bloody legs if you have to! Barl’s sweet love, you fool, do you want to kill us all?’

  Matcher gasped. ‘I can’t – they’re too strong—’

  On a muffled oath, Borne tried to climb up and over the coach railing. Struggled to reach Matcher, to reach the reins, to lend his strength to the coachman’s desperate hauling on the demented horses.

  The cripple let out a cry and flung himself to the other side of the carriage to join his father and the coachman. Morg shoved him back into his seat.

  ‘What are you doing?’ the cripple raged as the king and the coachman wrapped the reins round their forearms and pulled, shouting aloud with the effort. ‘I have to help!’

  ‘You can’t,’ said Morg. ‘You might hurt yourself.’

  Now the king was trying to save them with magic, shouting at the horses at the top of his lungs. Spells of somnolence. Spells of obedience. Even a spell to snap the harness so the carriage could break free. Spell after spell after spell … Morg destroyed each and every one with a thought. The carriage swept around the final bend and Dana, staring along the roadway, screamed. Directly ahead was the famous lookout. Spectacular. Untamed. Between disaster and safety, nothing but a stout wooden railing. The roadway curved to the right, intending to guide visitors to the genteel security of picnic grounds and nodding bluebells, of brilliant sunshine and dappled shade.

  The carriage hurtled on.

  ‘Durm, do something!’ screamed Fane, clutching her mother, all beauty consumed by terror. ‘There must be a spell—’

  ‘Oh, there is,’ Morg said, smiling, and stood.

  With a flourish and a single word he froze them all: Matcher, Borne, Fane, Dana and Gar. With another word and the snap of his fingers he sent Gar flying out of the carriage and onto the grassy side of the road. The prince hit the tussocked turf hard, sliding, to fetch up against the trunk of a spindly tree.

  With arm upraised Morg opened his mouth to send himself to safety and leave the carriage plunging towards its destruction. But one wheel hit a half-buried rock on the side of the road. Shattered. The carriage leapt into the air and before he could save himself Morg was thrown out. Striking the road hard, splintering fragile bone, tearing vulnerable flesh, he rolled and rolled and rolled until his head struck another rock and his pell-mell progress halted.

  By which time the magic-maddened carriage horses had galloped the king, the queen, the princess and their coachman clean through the wooden safety rail and over the edge of Salbert’s Eyrie. As though they had wings. As though they could fly. Their screams, falling, echoed the skirling of the eagles that rode the thermals high above the hidden valley floor. Then the screams stopped, abruptly, and a fusillade of echoes rang out as the carriage and its passengers and its horses shattered on the slopes of the unforgiving Eyrie. And after that: silence.

  The story concludes in

  THE AWAKENED MAGE

  Kingmaker, Kingbreaker

  Book Two

  Acknowledgements

  Where to start? This has been an epic journey: thanks are owed to so many people…

  Stephanie Smith, for believing in me even though the early work was – exceedingly early. And drafty.

  Tim Holman, whose faith in me is inspiring and sometimes even unnerving.

  Ethan Ellenberg, my agent, and a gentleman’s gentleman.

  The entire Orbit team, for their wonderful support.

  Mary, for her keen and critical eye and years of friendship. One serendipitous phone call and a mutual love of ‘The Sandbaggers.’ Who’d’ve thunk it, eh?

  Carol, who said it’d happen a long time before I really believed it would.

  Jenn, Cindee, Sharon, Gill and Ellen, for being.

  The Infinitas Writers’ Group, and Elaine and Pete and Melissa, for their input and encouragement.

  The folk at the original Del Rey Online Writers Workshop, who gave me hope.

  Terry Dowling and Kim Wilkins, for the right words at the right time.

  The booksellers, for championing fantasy writers.

  And last, but never least, you… the reader… for putting your money where my mouth is. Here’s hoping your trust hasn’t gone unrewarded.

  extras

  meet the author

  Karen Miller was born in Vancouver, Canada, and moved to Australia with her family when she was two. Apart from a three-year stint in the UK after graduating from university with a BA in communications, she’s lived in and around Sydney ever since. Karen started writing stories while still in elementary school, where she fell in love with speculative fiction. She’s held a variety of interesting jobs but now writes full-time.

  In addition to writing the Kingmaker, Kingbreaker books, Karen is the author of the hugely popular Godspeaker trilogy. Find out more about the author at www.karenmiller.net.

  introducing

  If you enjoyed THE INNOCENT MAGE, look out for

  THE AWAKENED MAGE

  by Karen Miller

  CHAPTER ONE

  With one callused hand shading his eyes, Asher stood on the Tower’s sandstone steps and watched the touring carriage with its royal cargo and Master Magician Durm bowl down the driveway, sweep around the bend in the road and disappear from sight. Then he heaved a rib-creaking sigh, turned on his heel and marched back inside. Darran and Willer weren’t about, so he left a note saying where Gar had gone and continued on his way.

  The trouble with princes he decided, as he thudded up the spiral staircase, was they could go gallivanting off on picnics in the countryside whenever the fancy struck and nobody could stop them. They could say, ‘Oh look, the sun is shining, the birds are singing, who cares about responsibilities today? I think I’ll go romp amongst the bluebells for an hour or three, tra la tra la.’

  And the trouble with working for princes, he added to himself as he pushed his study door open and stared in heart-sinking dismay at the piles of letters, memorandums and schedules that hadn’t magically disappeared from his desk while he was gone, damn it, was that you never got to share in that kind of careless luxury. Some poor fool had to care about those merrily abandoned responsibilities, and just now that poor fool went by the name of Asher.

  With a gusty sigh he kicked the door shut, slid reluctantly into his chair and got back to work.

  Acridly drowning in Meister Glospottle’s pestilent piss problems, he didn’t notice time passing as the day’s light drained slowly from the sky. He didn’t even realise he was no longer alone in his office until a hand pressed his shoulder and a voice said, ‘Asher? Are you dream-struck? What’s her name?’

  Startled, he dropped his pen and spun about in the chair. ‘Matt! Y’daft blot! You tryin’ to give me a heart spasm?’

  ‘No, I’m trying to get your attention,’ said Matt. He was half grinning, half concerned. ‘I knocked and knocked till I bruised my knuckles and then I called your name. Twice. What’s so important it’s turned you deaf?’

  ‘Urine,’ he said sourly. ‘You got any?’

  Matt blinked. ‘Well, no. Not on me. Not as such.’

  ‘Then you’re no bloody use. You might as well push off.’

  The thing he liked best about Matt was the stable meister’s reassuring aura of unflappability. A man could be as persnickety as he liked and all Matt would ever do was smile. The way he was smiling now. ‘And if I ask why you’re in such desperate need of urine, will I be sorry?’

  Suddenly aware of stiff muscles and a looming headache, Asher shoved his chair back and stomped around his office. Ha! His cage. ‘Prob’ly. I know I bloody am. Urine’s for gettin’ rid of into the nearest chamber pot, not for hoardin’ like a miser with gold.’

  Matt was looking bemused. ‘Since when did you have the urge to hoard urine?’

  ‘Since never! It’s bloody Indigo Glospottle’s got the ur
ge, not me.’

  ‘I know I’ll regret asking this, but how in Barl’s name could any man have a shortage of urine?’

  ‘By bein’ too clever for his own damned good, that’s how!’ He propped himself on the windowsill, scowling. ‘Indigo Glospottle fancies himself something of an artiste, y’see. Good ole-fashioned cloth dyein’ like his da did, and his da’s da afore him, that ain’t good enough for Meister Indigo Glospottle. No. Meister Indigo Glospottle’s got to go and think up new ways of dyein’ cloth and wool and suchlike, ain’t he?’

  ‘Well,’ said Matt, being fair, ‘you can’t blame the man for trying to improve his business.’

  ‘Yes, I can!’ he retorted. ‘When him improvin’ his business turns into me losin’ precious sleep over another man’s urine, you’d better bloody believe I can!’ Viciously mimicking, he screwed up his face into Indigo Glospottle’s permanently piss-strangled expression and fluted his voice in imitation. ‘“Oh, Meister Asher! The blues are so blue and the reds are so red! My customers can’t get enough of them! But it’s all in the piddle, you see!” Can you believe it? Bloody man can’t even bring himself to say piss! He’s got to say piddle. Like that’ll mean it don’t stink as much. “I need more piddle, Meister Asher! You must find me more piddle!” Because the thing is, y’see, these precious new ways of his use up twice as much piss as the old ways, don’t they? And since he’s put all the other guild members’ noses out of joint with his fancy secret dyein’ recipe, they’ve pulled strings to make sure he can’t get all the urine he needs. Now he reckons the only way he’s goin’ to meet demand is by going door to door with a bucket in one hand and a bottle in the other sayin’, “Excuse me, sir and madam, would you care to make a donation?” And for some strange reason, he ain’t too keen on that idea!’

  Matt gave a whoop of laughter and collapsed against the nearest bit of empty wall. ‘Asher!’

  Despite his irritation, Asher felt his own lips twitch. ‘Aye, well, I s’pose I’d be laughin’ too if the fool hadn’t gone and made his problem my problem. But he has, so I ain’t much in the mood for feelin’ amused just now.’