Color Mage (Book 1)

by Anne Marie Lutz

  “She cannot help you if you frighten her like that,” Si’lan rebuked the King. “Let her go.”

  The King released her from the psychic magery, and the terror left her. She took deep breaths, trying to cleanse her mind of the aftermath. Her muscles felt weak with reaction. She realized she had dropped her bag and it lay half-open on the tiles.

  “I will have it!” Ar’ok said. His alien yellow eyes glared at her. Even as ill as he was, he could control her. She wanted to leave him to his own misery.

  “You may decide, Your Majesty,” she told the King. “You and your advisor. You have heard the risks.” Let the boy King make his own decision. She knew he could order her slain without a second thought if she did not follow his orders.

  “Now,” Ar’ok said. Si’lan shrugged. Kirian nodded and called for tea, pulling the little twist of sart leaf from her bag. It broke into pieces and dissolved under the hot water, releasing its grassy aroma. She mixed the mellweed in, just a pinch, aware that Ar’ok had recently had Smoke. She gave the grainy stuff to the King, and he grabbed it, almost spilling it, and drank.

  Kirian watched. It did not take long before the mellweed in the tea helped relax Ar’ok’s tension. As his anxiety eased, so did his cramped posture. Yun’lar stood beside him, fingers at the King’s wrist, checking his pulse. The King’s labored breathing gradually grew slower, and he breathed freely.

  “So what’s the problem with that?” Ar’ok asked. “I can breathe, and I still live. You wished only to prolong my illness.”

  Si’lan cast an impatient look at the boy King. His eyes moved to Yun’lar. “Well?”

  Yun’lar said, “It is fast.”

  “It will grow faster,” Kirian said.

  Yun’lar grimaced. In a few short minutes, Ar’ok said, “I want to lie down.”

  Kirian went to him and helped him recline on the bench. A slave brought a cushion for the King’s head. She noticed the King’s chest rising and falling fast and shallow. He coughed. Yun’lar took the King’s pulse again, frowning. He said, “Your Majesty, how do you feel?”

  “Sick. Faint. My body trembles. The foreigner has poisoned me.” His voice was weak.

  “What do I do for this?” Yun’lar said.

  “I have no idea,” Kirian said. “He has had alcohol, Smoke, mellweed and sart leaf. I wouldn’t dare give him a sleeping draft. This is the danger I warned you about. All you can do is wait and help him relax, and pray to your god for the best.”

  “Yun’lar! My hands are tingling.”

  The lord physician’s eyes looked desperate. “You learned at the Healers’ College in Sugetre. I have heard what success you have had, treating the city women down at the hospital. Do you say there is nothing even you can do?”

  “I know of nothing. I did warn you, Lord Yun’lar. But the King is young and strong. If he can relax, perhaps he will win through this.”

  “Yun’lar!” Ar’ok’s voice trembled. “My hands are shaking now!”

  Si’lan said, “Get a blanket, and get his slave in here.”

  Kirian looked at him.

  “I mean for her to massage his neck and shoulders; this may help him relax. It may also take his mind off his discomfort, so he does not add to his stress by needless worry.”

  She looked at him with more respect. “Very well.” She sent for Eyelinn and intercepted the young woman at the door. “Look,” she said, “No games. The King is really ill. If you can relax him, make him sleep, it will be well. Can you massage his neck and shoulders?”

  Eyelinn nodded. Her beautiful eyes were on Ar’ok. “I love him. I will do anything,” she said.

  Kirian wondered if she knew about Inmay, but decided not to muddy the situation with complications. The slave hurried to Ar’ok’s side, showing more concern than Kirian had ever seen from her. She was clearly still under the King’s ku’an influence. She bent over him, caressed his face until the King snapped, “Leave my face alone!”

  Eyelinn knelt by the bench. A moment later, she began moving her hands along Ar’ok’s neck, using slow, smooth strokes. Her long fingers wound up through Ar’ok’s hair, down his neck, over his shoulders. The King’s frown slipped away. A slave brought a cloth soaked in warm water and placed it on the King’s forehead.

  Si’lan said, “Will it answer?”

  “It is better than nothing. It may work.” She looked into the amber eyes, so like Callo’s, in the lined face. “It was creative. Thank you, Lord Ku’an’an.”

  The King still breathed fast. But his eyes were closed and the long, gentle strokes of Eyelinn’s hands soothed him. After half a candlemark, Yun’lar again took the King’s pulse.

  “A little better. Still very fast. We will need to keep vigilant. How long will this effect last?”

  “Candlemarks, perhaps. Stay close, Yun’lar.” She turned to the ku’an’an as Yun’lar returned to the King’s side. “My lord, may I speak with you?”

  They went aside so as not to disturb the King. She said, “I must ask you about the Righan foreigner that was put to death a few days ago.”

  “This Inmay? Lord Callo asked me about him.”

  “Why was he executed?”

  “He would not accept reality.”

  Kirian feared she knew what that meant, but said, “What do you mean, my lord?”

  “The King wanted this woman Eyelinn. He saw her in the city, unveiled. Inmay would not accept it. First Ar’ok ordered him imprisoned, but during the transfer the young man escaped and went to her in the slave’s quarters, trying to entice her to escape.”

  She sighed. Inmay had been besotted far beyond common sense. “And he was found out.”

  “No, Healer. The woman gave him up to the guards.”

  “Eyelinn did?” She looked at the concubine who knelt patiently on the hard tiles by the King’s side, kneading his shoulders. “She owed Inmay a great deal, my lord. I am not sure how she could have done a thing like that.”

  “You know how. His Majesty has used his ku’an influence on her. She loves him more than breath itself, would do anything Ar’ok asks. That is how it works.” There was a note of warning in the ku’an’an’s tone.

  And Ar’ok, of course, wanted only one thing from Eyelinn. Kirian wondered what the King would do when he tired of Eyelinn’s body. Where would she go, and what would she do? Certainly the future did not look promising for the slave.

  She checked with Yun’lar about the King’s condition and found it unchanged. It would be some time until the sart leaf ceased to affect the King’s heart. At least the boy was as relaxed as possible, enjoying the sensation of Eyelinn’s hands soothing his muscles.

  Yun’lar settled into a nearby chair; he would remain—watching and monitoring, although Kirian had no idea what the lord physician could do to help if the King’s heart began to race out of control.

  She left the courtyard, returning to her rooms. There she found three guardsmen waiting to remove her Healer’s bag from her and deliver her to the cells under Las’ash Castle.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Callo was sick with self-disgust. He wanted to go work off his misery in the ring, but couldn’t move either arm well enough to even take a few jabs at a practice dummy. After Kirian left, he found himself drinking wine in his chair by the window until he could no longer feel the pain in his arms or in his heart. When Chiss came to remove the wine jug and get him to bed, the servant asked no questions. Callo slept the sleep of the deeply inebriated, but the next morning he still felt awful.

  Now, with his left arm beginning to move normally, he was free to go where he wanted. He felt that not all was right with the other wound. He followed the physician’s instructions with care, but knew his recovery was in Jashan’s hands. He refrained from watching Yun’lar’s face when the man checked the status of his wound, and snapped at Chiss when the man suggested they have Healer Kirian in to look at it. He held it firmly against his side to ease the pain and refused any more mellweed.

  He wen
t to the ring very early the next day. There he stood weaponless and asked Jashan to guide his ku’an magery so he could never use it for ill. He did not complete the form, and did not know if the god heard him.

  The memory of Kirian’s face, after he had pushed her away, was bitter to him. It played over again before his mind’s eye, heedless of his misery. He remembered his delight in her face and body, the pleasure of her voice, her humor, and care for him. He had known for some time he desired her. He remembered the urge to touch her, to kiss her, the thrill of the urge to bed her. Then he would remember her face, lips welcoming him, eyes shining. It seemed he was fortunate, and she desired him too.

  He remembered his shock as he realized what he must have done, how he must have influenced her. Images of Ar’ok’s uncaring manipulation of the slave girl Eyelinn rose before his eyes. He could see again his attackers fleeing in the alley outside the Black Duck, infused with fear by the power of his psychic magery. How powerful emotions were! How easy it was to wish upon others what one wanted them to feel—even without realizing it.

  The mellweed might have weakened the guard he always kept on that part of himself. Even now he did not quite know how he had done it. But one thing he knew: all his life he had seen those with mage power use their wills to get what they wanted, without thought, without care, and sometimes without purpose, other than self-satisfaction. He would not be one of those.

  He would keep the shock and shame of Kirian’s reaction to remind him.

  Now, wandering in the Castle with no clear place to go, he knew his errand here was done. He had learned enough about the ku’an to realize he would never be comfortable using their power to advance their goals. That way lay corruption. He had been manipulated too often by King Martan during his youth, and he had seen the shrewd and suspicious king use others without compunction. He would not become like that.

  He could barely stand to be here in Ar’ok’s palace, walking the halls, seeing the common people look away when they accidentally looked into his eyes.

  Maybe somehow he could make restitution for what he had done. He would do it obliquely. He dared not address Kirian on this issue. Perhaps, now that he understood better what he could accomplish as a ku’an, there was some way he could at least help Arias. The Collar worked by compulsion; maybe the ku’an magery could ease that compulsion somehow.

  He was in the weapons room, working on his sword, when he heard the ku’an’an’s deep voice hail him. Si’lan was the only one of these people he had never seen try to exploit another human being, the only one he might, someday, come to respect. But he still knew little about the man. He knew his distrust was obvious in his voice as he responded to Si’lan.

  “I have news for you,” Si’lan said, “Which I give you for nothing, for reasons of my own. The Healer, Hon Kirian . . .”

  “What of her?”

  “She has been taken and imprisoned by the King. No, don’t rush to her rescue—she will be well treated.” An amused note came into Si’lan’s voice. “And put away that sword, please. You look very martial, but that will not help.”

  Callo took a deep breath. He sheathed his sword, his right arm protesting. “What happened?”

  Si’lan told him. Callo sat through the story, his eyes on the ku’an’an’s face. Then he said, “So her usefulness to the King is done. He has the sart leaves, and Yun’lar, the fool, knows how to use them until they can obtain more. They had best treat her well!”

  “She is in the cells. I will have someone take you to her, so that you may assure yourself.”

  Callo frowned. “Why did you bring me this news yourself?”

  “I felt I owed you that. And Kirian, as brave a soul as she has turned out to be.”

  “Owed us? A noble concept, for a ku’an.”

  “I am aware you think poorly of us.”

  Callo laughed, a bitter sound that felt as if it came from his heart. “Why do you care?”

  Si’lan sat down, pulling his cloak around him. “It is irrelevant now why I care. The world has changed, and things are not as they were planned to be.”

  “So even a ku’an cannot always have things . . .” Callo stopped as Si’lan’s words caught up with him. He frowned, looking at the older man’s face as if for the first time, seeing again the strange similarity.

  Si’lan’s mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “No. A ku’an cannot dictate the movements of time or of kingdoms—as much as Ar’ok would wish otherwise. And when he tries, time mocks his plans.”

  Callo tried for a moment to figure out the meaning behind the older man’s words; he felt as if they had a very personal import. Then, strained by days of pain, Callo lost his patience. “Out with it,” he said, knowing he was being rude. “What do you know of the circumstances of my birth?”

  Si’lan rose, shaking his head, the malice back in his smile. “Was I there at your birth? My duty to you is done, and more than done, and my message brought to you personally out of respect for the Healer. Ask no more of me.”

  “You do not feel you owe me an explanation?”

  “I have none to give. I will send someone to show you to the cells. Once you have satisfied yourself that she is being treated well, pay heed to me and forget her. You will be better off learning the ways of the ku’an you profess to despise, for you are one after all, however it came about.” Si’lan walked off, leaving Callo staring after him in a state of anger and confusion.

  The slave who came to show him to the cells was not talkative. Callo followed him, taking careful note of the turns in the passages, the stairs they took. This was a maze of a place, and he wanted to be able to find his way back to Kirian. They exited the castle proper and went down a roofed passageway, dirt-floored and open to the weather through big arched windows that lined the walkway to both sides, until they came to a gate that led to underground rooms. A cloaked man in Ar’ok’s insignia came to admit them, then accompanied them into the stone-walled tunnel that took them to the cells.

  There were prisoners in almost all of the cells. Callo could hear their sounds, the mumbling to each other through the walls. He saw an occasional face through the tiny, barred windows. One cell held a group of women, veiled even here in prison. In another cell a bearded man with a pale face yelped “Ku’an!” and the warning echoed in a dull fashion down the passageway, stilling all the voices for a moment. Then the warder brought them to one door, no different from the rest, and said, “Here she is.”

  Callo looked through the little window and felt his pulse jump. The cell had no external window, so Kirian was lit only by the wavering lamplight from the hallway. She paced back and forth, but did not seem in undue distress. She seemed in deep thought, her gaze on the floor.

  “Kirian!”

  She looked up at the window. “Lord Callo!” She smiled. “Thank the Unknown God, you are here. I wasn’t sure they would tell you what happened.”

  “The ku’an’an told me. He respects you, I think. Are you all right?” In spite of his fear for her, he felt a rush of relief that she was glad to see him.

  “I am perfectly well, except I am forced to be here. I should have expected it sooner.”

  “What happened?”

  She told him what had happened that morning. “But whether that was why they decided to arrest me, I don’t know. I think they’ve been ready to do this since the day we set foot on the docks.”

  “The ku’an’an told me you are being treated well. Is that true?”

  “Well enough. I have food, and water, and a blanket. No one has hurt me or even spoken to me rudely.” She moved aside so he could see a water jug and some bread on a wooden tray on the bench behind her. “What do you think will happen next?”

  Callo’s mouth set. “I have no idea. It could be almost anything. I’ll get you out of here, Kirian, I swear it.”

  “My thanks.” There was no distress in her voice; it was even a little soothing, as if she were trying to keep him calm.

  It did not work. Hi
s blood was boiling.

  The warder took care on the way out to show Callo the room of guards, currently sitting around a table playing dice, but clearly armed and available to quell any attempts at escape or rescue. He pulled the big gates together with a crash and locked them, nodding at the two men standing guard there before he bid farewell to Callo and vanished into his rooms.

  Callo went to Ar’ok’s audience room and demanded admittance.

  “My lord ku’an, the King is not here,” said the guard.

  “Then where is he?”

  The guard did not know. Callo tracked down the ku’an’an again, this time in his office, and said with no greeting: “Where is Ar’ok? I need to see him.”

  Si’lan raised his eyebrows and dismissed the clerk he had been meeting with. “You’d best calm down before you find him, or you will likely be in the cell next to the Healer’s.”

  “How could he do that? She saved his life, Si’lan. Gods curse him.”

  “Ar’ok follows only his own inclinations.”

  “As do all of you ku’an,” flashed Callo.

  “You came here. You are subject to our rule. If you don’t like it, you should not have come here! The woman is out of your reach. Accept it. It was too late when she went to that hospital, flouting the modesty laws in public. There is nothing you can do. She will be treated well until . . .”

  “Until—what?”

  The ku’an’an stared at him and did not reply. Callo felt a pressure inside his mind and shook his head viciously, seeing to his internal wall, making sure it could keep away the man’s influence. “No, you don’t. Don’t you dare try to calm me down. What do you think I am, a fool, to let you do that twice?”

  Si’lan’s mouth curled in an unpleasant smile. The pressure ebbed.

  Callo swore and stalked out of the room. When he got back to his own room, he found Chiss sitting on the floor, sorting through a pile of clothing and other items. He strode past Chiss without a word of greeting and began pacing back and forth in front of the open window, trying to plan through his rage.