Color Mage (Book 1)

by Anne Marie Lutz

  “It would be anyway,” Arias murmured. “Tomorrow,” he said, lying back and closing his eyes.

  Callo spent the day in an unsettled state of mind. He felt it affecting his performance during his shift, making him irritable with his men and with Chiss. That evening he went to the practice ring alone and spent a hard candlemark practicing his forms. When he was finished and stood, sweating and bone-weary in the center circle, with his sword lifted to the dusky sky, he felt centered again. He thanked Jashan for it; when properly worshiped in the ancient forms, the god always restored his self-control and kept his temper from causing trouble.

  The day passed with worry hanging over him like a constant ache. No word came from Arias, which he accounted good news. No gossip came through Chiss, as if the subject had been shut down by a higher authority; that was probably not good news, not at all. Callo noticed that Chiss, too, seemed on edge. Chiss had been with him in the capacity of manservant, guide and partner, since he was nine, and Callo could not help but be attuned to the man’s moods. Chiss was also experienced in dealing with the king, since he had been responsible for Callo’s conduct during his early training. If Chiss was worried, there was good reason for Callo to be as well. Callo stood his watches and dealt with the minor matters of his command and determined that he had warned Arias, and now it was the fool’s own responsibility to take some action; but he could not concentrate. Even his second in command Drale commented on his distraction.

  He returned to his room after his watch to find Chiss packing his belongings. For a moment he stared in surprise at the stack of clothing.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “I have been told to pack your belongings for a journey to SeagardCastle,” Chiss said. Chiss’ long fingers folded a gilt sash; there was a glint of gold thread in the pile of tunics prepared for the journey.

  “Who . . .”

  Chiss said, “His Majesty, of course, my lord. I think you’ll find some correspondence on the table.”

  Callo found the letter on the table and broke the seal. In the ornate script of His Majesty’s scribe, it commanded him to prepare himself and a small unit of the guard he commanded to journey to SeagardCastle with His Majesty King Martan Alghasi Monteni. There was no indication of the reason for the journey.

  “I’ll send to the men,” Callo said. He sat down to scribble orders to his second. Hon Drale was an eager young man newly returned from the Leyish border who had been assigned to Callo’s troop. He signed and sealed it, then went to a drawer and pulled out his righ ring on its gold chain. “Chiss, please pack this as well.” On this trip, it might be necessary for even the King’s bastard nephew to show off his rank.

  Callo added it to the pile, just as there was a drumming on his door.

  “Come in,” he called.

  The door swung open to admit Arias. He was smiling. Once again he wore his mage’s cloak, just now vibrant with peach and red amid the blackness that eclipsed even Arias’ dark Alkirani hair. No sword hung at his side; though Arias was competent with the weapon, color mages had their own means of self-defense.

  “Callo!” Arias said. “Why so grim? It’s only a visit to the family.”

  “In the company of His Majesty Sharpeyes,” Callo said. “You go as well?”

  “Indeed. I was summoned this morning.”

  “Well?”

  “You’re thinking of that thing with the Lady Fiora. I was a little concerned about it myself. His Majesty asked about the lady’s health, and I told him I had no idea about the state of her health, since I hadn’t seen her since the party.”

  Callo looked up, searching Arias’ eyes.

  “You’re perfectly right,” Arias said. “I have decided I am better off far away from Lady Fiora.”

  “Poor Fiora!” said Callo lightly. But the tension began to leave his shoulders.

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” Arias said. “She will be triumphant to have attached His Majesty himself.”

  “That won’t last.”

  “True—but in the meantime Fiora will be second only to the Queen, and I will escape from this mess with my neck unbroken.” Arias paced around the room, stopping for a moment by Callo’s window to look out at the fortifications that were his only view.

  “It seems so. You were not as unconscious of the danger as you appeared, then.”

  “How could I be? Every friend has been warning me for a sennight.” Arias laughed, and a spark of green showed in his eyes as he released his tension in the form of some minor color magic.

  “I’ve been remembering poor Husholt.” Callo knew Arias would remember Husholt, who had been hanged for daring to cross King Martan in some matter of property.

  “I thought of him myself.” Arias sighed. “I will see you on the road, I suppose. You will be with your unit?”

  Callo nodded.

  “I ride with the king and Sopharin.” Arias grimaced. “I will need patience to put up with that fop all the way to Seagard.”

  * * * * *

  It was a tiresome journey to Seagard with Arias and King Martan’s ponderous retinue. Martan kept to himself and his family during the journey, occasionally hosting the nobles and mages for an evening drink or an impromptu concert by Queen Efalla, who had brought her lyre with her. Queen Efalla was a technically accomplished musician, but her playing lacked energy and emotion. Arias returned from these evenings exhausted and sometimes inebriated, since the guests had nothing better to do during the interminable concerts than drink the fine wine and brandy that was offered. At those times Callo grinned and sent for Arias’ manservant Rosh to put Arias to bed, rejoicing that he was not expected to attend the royal concerts by reason of his unusual status with the royal family.

  Never was there a hint of any royal displeasure. Callo began to think Lord Arias had escaped.

  At SeagardCastle, Arias settled into the luxurious rooms he had enjoyed on previous visits to his family’s holding. Though he had not spent his youth there, Arias had made brief visits to Seagard to see his father, Lord Mikati Moran Alkiran, his mother Lady Sira Joah Alkiran, and his brother and sister. Callo never joined him on these visits. Now, Callo beheld the fortress with a frown, put off by the atmosphere of grim watchfulness that pervaded the place. The WatchTower itself stood like a fist against the sky.

  Callo was pointedly not invited to the family dinners, and but for a sly comment or two from one of the servants, would have thought the noble family was unaware of his presence. Lady Sira Joah, it seemed, had been spending most evenings alone in her suite of rooms, possibly embarrassed to face the bastard son who had turned out to be her legitimate son’s best friend. Unoffended and a little amused by the studied ignorance of his presence, Callo whiled away his free time with books, riding out when the weather permitted, and, once, exploring all the way to the fishing village down the mountainside. Lord Arias kept him company in the evenings when he was not engaged by his family or the king. King Martan did not require Callo’s presence before the Alkiran family.

  Then on the sixth night of their stay, he received a message from one of King Martan’s slaves.

  “Lord Arias is in the upper solar. He needs you.”

  This was so strange that Callo did not hesitate even to close the door to his apartments. He followed the slave to the upper solar, a lofty room with windows open to the sky. Tonight, the stars shone through sporadic cloud cover. There, he found Arias.

  Arias stood perilously close to the open window, leaning heavily on his arms as he stared down at the booming surf far below. A chill wind whipped Arias’ cloak around him and sent the few candles on the mantle guttering.

  “Arias?” Callo said cautiously.

  There was no response, but a glimmer of color traced Arias’ hands where they lay on the stone. Arias seemed disturbed, then.

  Callo drew closer. “Arias?”

  Arias’ back was still turned. Callo reached out and grasped Arias’ arm just as his friend swayed toward the yawning windo
w.

  “Arias!” Callo grabbed him hard, dispensing with politeness. “What the hell are you doing? What’s wrong?”

  Arias wrenched away, but not before Callo had time to see the glitter of the new Collar on his friend’s neck.

  “Jashan!” Callo swore. He pulled Arias forcibly toward him, away from the window.

  “Callo,” Arias said weakly, seeming to finally realize his friend was there. “I’m Collared.”

  “I see,” Callo said grimly, “And I can warrant why, too. Curse him, King or not, for a jealous old fool! Come with me, Arias; I’ll get you to your room.”

  It was almost criminal to leave a newly-Collared mage alone. New bindings had a way of taking hold with an unexpected force; it had been known for persons newly bound to a place to be so strongly attracted to it that they jumped out of windows or leaped from the decks of ships to be closer to the place of binding. And sometimes a person fought the Collar. Bindings worked best on the young, where they lay as a powerful framework upon the person’s mind; but an individual as old as Arias had his own framework, his own ingrained habits and loyalties. Callo had heard of a case where someone Arias’ age died from an attempted binding.

  Callo stuck his head out the door and called the first slave he saw.

  “Get my lord’s manservant Rosh! I need him here now! And then come back yourself. We may need you.”

  The slave ran off and Callo turned his full attention to Lord Arias. Arias leaned on Callo, seeming only half aware of his surroundings. As soon as Rosh arrived, he allowed them to help him down the corridor. Arias seemed sluggish, and he stumbled often on the hollowed stone steps down to the residential level. From time to time he shook his head as if trying to clear it. His eyes showed red under drooping lids. Callo grew angrier the farther they went.

  Callo and Rosh guided Arias through his dressing room and into the bedchamber. There, Arias slumped on the bed while Rosh, mumbling to himself in distress at his master’s condition, removed his boots and cloak.

  “Arias, how are you feeling now?” Callo asked as Rosh helped his master lie down, still clothed in breeches and loose tunic. “Are you any better?”

  “I feel hot,” Arias said. Callo reached out the back of his hand to check Arias’ forehead. He drew his hand away fast, shocked at the heat.

  “Gods!” he said. “I’ll get a Healer. Stay put, will you? Just for a moment. I will expect you to be here when I return, Arias!” Callo had no confidence that middle-aged, plump Rosh could restrain Lord Arias if it came to that.

  Arias lifted a hand in acknowledgment, so Callo felt fairly safe in leaving him for a few minutes. He pulled the door closed behind him. A footman loitered in the corridor.

  “You!” called Callo. “I need a Healer called, right now. There is a Healer?”

  “In the village, lord,” the footman said. “Hon Ruthan.”

  “Get her, now!” Callo ordered. “Lord Arias is becoming very ill. Tell the Healer she may be up here for some time. Tell her it is a binding fever.”

  The footman’s eyes widened and he turned to go at a run down the corridor. Callo remembered the rocky cliff path and hoped it would not take candlemarks for the Healer to arrive. The fever had come upon Arias so quickly, and seemed so high, that he feared for his friend’s life.

  He returned to the room and ordered Rosh to do what he could to make Arias comfortable. He sent for wine and ice from the cellars, but Arias would not touch them. Rosh stripped the covers off the bed so Arias could lie on cool sheets, but his fever still raged.

  Arias began to mumble to himself, his words thick. He seemed only sporadically aware of the presence of others. Soon his fever began burning away his control on his magery, and a cocoon of disturbed color began wrapping his restless hands. Callo was forced to retreat to the door as the occasional sparks of magery glimmered from the bed hangings and washed violently up the walls in a churning sea of hues. He dreaded that he would soon feel the subtle graying of the world that would indicate that Arias was pulling strength from the living things around him, but at least so far Arias retained enough control to resist.

  Rosh edged farther and farther away from the bed. He finally begged leave to go. “It’s dangerous, sir!”

  “You’re needed,” Callo responded shortly.

  “Sir!” Rosh pleaded. His eyes fixed on the shifting energies pooling around the feverish mage.

  “He won’t hurt you,” Callo said, although he was far from sure of that.

  “He won’t hurt you, my lord. He has no idea I am even here. May I wait outside, sir?”

  “Oh, go ahead!” snapped Callo.

  Then the door swept open and Lord Mikati Alkiran, Arias’ father, walked in without waiting for permission. Lord Mikati had dark hair and a lined, handsome face. His own Collar, set there many years ago by the King, shone on his neck. He stared at his son for a moment and then caught sight of Callo, leaning against the wall.

  “You!” Lord Mikati said.

  Callo gave a slight bow. “Yes, my lord,” he said.

  “How is Lord Arias doing?”

  “Very ill, so far. It would be much better if this Healer could be hurried along, my lord,” Callo said. “A Collar, at Arias’ age . . .”

  Mikati shrugged. “It is his duty, after all,” he said. “He should have been Collared long ago.”

  Callo nodded. “Is there anything you can do, my lord? Can you suppress this magery? It will make it hard for the healer to work.”

  “No. Arias is strong, and I can’t risk depleting my own energy to control him. I must Watch tonight.”

  It was an Alkiran’s prime duty—Lord Mikati’s bound duty, in fact—to Watch toward Ha’las for the Black Tide. Nothing would stay him from it. That was the nature of the binding put upon the Seagard Alkirani by King Martan Sharpeyes. From now on, if he survived this violent binding, Lord Arias would also let nothing stop him from the task of the Watch for the Black Tide. Arias’ life had changed for good.

  “Lord Forell? Perhaps Lord Eamon?” Callo asked, naming Arias’ brother and uncle, who had spent their lives here and been bound to the same service as Mikati.

  “I’ll thank you not to disturb either of them. The Healer will manage. Stay with him. Call some servants—Borin will help.”

  Lord Mikati swept out, leaving Callo fighting a rush of anger. On his heels came a slave leading an ancient woman with ruined eyes and a young woman with defiantly cropped hair. Both wore cloaks beaded with water from the sea spray and carried bulky bags.

  “The Healers, Lord Callo,” the slave said.

  “Thank you. Stay close for a while, in case we need you,” Callo ordered.

  “I am Ruthan, and this is the new Healer from the college, Hon Kirian,” said the old woman. She ignored the flashes of color magic around the man on the bed and walked right up to touch his forehead. “This man is very hot. A binding fever, you say?”

  “He is newly Collared,” Callo said. “He was not expecting it. It was in the nature of an attack.”

  The younger woman’s brown eyes searched his. “Is this his first binding, my lord?”

  Callo nodded. “He went into this fever almost immediately, Healer. I warn you, he is a color mage, and in this fever he will be dangerous.”

  “We will reduce the fever,” Ruthan said to the young Healer. “Bitterwood.”

  “Do you want me to bring in Lord Arias’ manservant to help you?” Callo asked.

  “Is that who was huddling out there?” the younger woman asked. “He’s not doing much good. He is afraid of the magery?”

  Callo nodded. “He’s not wrong to be afraid, Hon Kirian.”

  The old woman interrupted, her hand on Arias’ wrist as she measured his pulse. “Mix me some mellweed too, young Kirian; he looks to need it.”

  “But . . .” Callo stopped.

  “Mellweed,” Ruthan repeated. Her blank eyes looked in Callo’s direction. “It will send his mind elsewhere, into dream or vision. He might be fortu
nate enough to have a true dream, sent by one of the gods. But he will no longer have the focus to fight the Collar.”

  Callo nodded, understanding. It was a sad thing to conspire to thwart his friend’s will to fight against this binding that he clearly had no wish for. If asked right now, Lord Arias might even refuse the drug, choosing to struggle against the King’s binding with every bit of his strength. But Callo knew such a fight would kill Arias; he had no hope of succeeding. And he wanted Lord Arias alive, even if it meant his half-brother’s submission to the King’s vengeful binding.

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  The younger Healer mixed the bitterwood in an earthen jar. The familiar odor wrinkled Callo’s nose even where he stood. The mellweed, mixed with cold tea in another jar, looked innocuous and soothing; it was difficult to understand the power the thick substance had. Arias seemed to smell the mixtures as well; he paused in his restless movements and took a deep breath, as if inhaling the healing mixtures. The wild colors momentarily ebbed.

  “That’s right, my lord,” Ruthan said. “You know this is what you need. You’ll take it without any need to get that manservant in here to help, I think.”

  The old woman lifted the earthenware jar to Arias’ lips. She tilted the mixture down his throat and he swallowed, but then he struck out with a flash of red power that shattered the jar and the nearby window, throwing the old woman back onto the floor.

  Callo leaped to the bedside and pinned his friend’s arms to the bed. Kirian helped the old woman up. Hon Ruthan cradled her right wrist in her other hand.

  “Ruthan!” Kirian said. “Are you all right?”

  “No,” Ruthan gasped as she allowed herself to be helped to a chair. “When he broke that jar, he got my wrist, too. It’s broken; there’s no doubt.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “We’ll deal with that in due course,” Ruthan said. “Here’s a task for you, my new assistant! Get that mellweed down him, and the sooner the better for all concerned.”

  Kirian picked up the cup and nodded to Callo, who tightened his grip on his friend’s arms. She tilted the mixture down my lord’s throat and leaped back out of immediate reach.