The Royal Wizard

by Alianne Donnelly

  The sorcerer freed one hand and grasped onto Loki’s ankle, pulling with all the might he possessed to save himself. Even with the pendant aiding him, he could not budge Loki an inch.

  The Trickster leaned a little more weight on that foot, feeling the boundary past which bones would break. He skirted it closely, but did not cross. Instead, he leaned down to meet the mortal’s gaze, letting him see the vast, swirling darkness in his eyes. “Speak to me once more in that tone of voice, and I will give you the immortality you crave. I will give you forever to regret your words.”

  By the time he removed himself again to the other side of the room, the sorcerer was in his bed, on a righted mattress, coughing wretchedly. “I can do it,” he said between ragged breaths.

  Of course, there was no possibility of that. The other gods would never allow it. Not that it would ever get so far. Daughter of a demigod and a water sprite, Lady Nialei of the Streams would never yield without a fight. And now, with the dragon’s blood, she might even be powerful enough to not only stop the sorcerer, but destroy him as well.

  The sorcerer would burn like tinder in the face of her terrible wrath, never knowing how he had failed, still trying to capture that fire inside the stone—in himself, the fool.

  But watching him try and fail might prove entertaining. And if the fight came to sway overwhelmingly in the wizard’s favor, he could always step in and make it a little more equal. No one had ever said he could not meddle in a mortal’s affairs. That it would affect the Lady was simply a tragic coincidence.

  It was bad politics to anger everyone around him. Like them or not, he still had to live with all those other gods. If he defied them, they’d become insufferable, and there weren’t enough hiding places in all the dimensions to avoid them for long enough. Better to keep them content. For the moment.

  This little rebellion would undoubtedly feel quite satisfying once it was under way. And he was certain that as soon as he left the sorcerer, his destiny would once more turn dark. How could it not?

  The sorcerer watched him, scarce breathing. He was still, save for the shaking of his hands and lips. It seemed the older humans got, the more difficult it was for them to not move.

  Loki held out his hand. The stone tore out of the sorcerer’s grasp, and he cried out in helpless anger. It came to the Trickster, rubbing over his palm as if to appease him. He had but to think about wishing it and it opened to him, displaying all the pretty shinies it held within.

  Powers and magics no single being should ever possess. Nearly all of what humanity had to offer bottled in a small black crystal, neutral as long as its wearer remained so. They never did. From their influence, the magics were turning dark and evil.

  Though Loki was ever one to cause mischief, this darkness in the power made him uneasy. It warped his creation, changing the design and slowly forming a hole. It was not yet finished, he could see. It only waited for that one last bolt to crash through the warp and leave the crystal open wide.

  So this was how the sorcerer hoped to become immortal. Once again, the fool didn’t realize what he dealt with.

  Black ice could hold not only magics, but traits as well. Thoughts and feelings, hopes and dreams. Perfect imitations of the wielders’ true souls. So many lay within that they would overwhelm the sorcerer, make him crazed. The shock would strip him of his control and the powers would destroy him.

  Win or lose, the sorcerer was already dead.

  But if the powers held within the stone drained into him instead, his body would not be a strong enough prison for them. They would burst out of him and, dark as they were, wreak havoc on the human world. Woden would not like that, Loki thought with a dejected sigh. The god king would know the stone’s origins and hold Loki responsible, even though he’d not interfered a single time since the pendant had come to life for the old woman.

  And that meant that his choices had just been whittled away to only one. He closed his fist around the pendant, searing it shut for the moment. It would not hold for very long, the warp in the structure was weakening it already. When he tossed it back to the sorcerer, happy tears sprang up in the old man’s eyes.

  “I knew it,” he said.

  “Knew what?” Not that he cared.

  “I knew I was right,” the sorcerer cried. “You’d not have returned the stone to me if I was to fail. There is too much at risk.” He cackled madly, crawling on hands and knees back to the center of the bed to curl into a ball with the pendant clutched to his chest again.

  Loki watched him rejoice for a while, allowed him to gain more and more confidence in himself, and begin celebrating the grand victory he imagined in his future. He built the sorcerer’s hope into a firm belief. Before he shattered it. “You forget who it is you are speaking to.”

  Silence descended upon the garishly appointed chamber as the sorcerer realized his fate was no more certain than the outcome of a coin toss. His face turned gray, his eyes opened wider, and a small wailing sound escaped him. Doubt. Fear. He would carry them next to his ailing heart for a day or two, as he carried the crystal, but soon both would fade, conquered by his greed.

  Satisfied for the moment, the Trickster melted back into shadow, back through the portal to await the grand battle.

  CHAPTER 31

  Nia dreamed of walking through a beautiful forest. The sky was bright blue above her, the grass soft and warm beneath her bare feet. Woodland creatures watched her from all around, their large, curious eyes unblinking. Nia smiled at them, sent them her greetings, but they didn’t respond. Thinking nothing of it, she continued on her path and came to a footbridge across a forest stream.

  There, her step slowed. It was a plain enough bridge, three flat, even planks laid side by side across the stream. Nothing to cause alarm. Yet she felt the tension in the earth as it waited. The stream glistened like magic, singing songs she could almost understand. It called to her, beckoned her closer. But the sight of the bridge held her back.

  It didn’t belong. Whatever it was, it ought not be here.

  But, though she knew this, Nia couldn’t stop herself from stepping closer. The grass hugged her feet, the blades sliced skin, but the sting was soothed by morning dew. Another step closer. Close enough to see the grooves in the wood.

  Close enough to see the planks had rooted themselves into the bank as though still alive. As she studied it, puzzled by this unnatural magic, the roots groaned and strained. The ground bulged and then broke apart as a long, thick root tore out with enough force to snap like a whip.

  It lashed back again and Nia jumped aside, but she wasn’t quick enough and the tip cut her skirt open across one thigh. Blood marred her white skin and the roots groaned again, laughing.

  One after the next, the bridge planks tore out of their moorings across the stream and stood on end before her. They melted together into a solid pillar, and then what used to be the center plank collapsed in on itself, pulling the others around it to form a frame. The center plank twisted tighter, became darker. So dark it was like black glass, reflecting the world back to Nia, but she couldn’t see herself in its surface.

  The stream sang louder, a warning this time. It went unheeded. Her gaze on the crystal in front of her, Nia came closer. The forest hissed, creatures crying out; she heard them fighting to come to her. She thought about releasing them, but the idea was as fleeting as a rare southern breeze.

  Another step. Reaching out to touch the beautiful, dark thing, wondering at its secrets.

  The root whip snapped again, lashing at her wrist and around it, squeezing like a sharp vise. It snatched Nia forward off her feet and into the air. She cried out at the searing pain, tears stinging her eyes. Yet she was still unable to look away from the crystal, searching for her reflection, desperate to see it and…there! An image began to form.

  The stream roared; she heard its fury uncoil from deep underground and the crystal’s pull intensified. She could almost make out her face.

  The stream exploded into
the air and broke the root binding her in half.

  It jarred her out of the enchantment and Nia fell to the ground, scrambling away. The forest creatures swarmed her, big and small, hackles up and teeth barred at the black glass and the bridge. The stream battered the crystal without mercy. It fought back, growing in size, but the bigger it became, the harder the water beat at it until it began to break apart under the onslaught. It screamed like a wild thing, and the animals gathered closer around Nia, pushing her away from it.

  Nia shuddered. It sounded human. Human, and filled with dark rage. This was no ordinary dream.

  The stream didn’t let up until the crystal reverted back to wood and broke apart into small pieces to be washed away. As it did, the root still twined around her wrist withered and fell away, turning to dust.

  Nia opened her eyes and gasped for breath. She was in her own bed, the stillness of earth telling her the world had not yet awakened to morning. Hands shaking, she brushed her hair away from her face and felt wetness smear across her cheek. She frowned and summoned light.

  The skin of her wrist was chafed bloody.

  * * *

  The sorcerer screamed his rage at the crystal and hurled it across the chamber. It struck the earthen pitcher and shattered it to dust. He tore the warped silver disc off the wall, slammed it on the floor and then stomped on it again and again until his foot slipped and he fell.

  The furs weren’t thick enough to temper his fall, and a bone in his leg snapped like a twig. In his fury, it mended in an instant, but the pain remained and enraged him further. He struggled to his feet, gasping, and hobbled back to the bed. By the time he sat, the crystal was slithering like a snake back into his hand.

  He stared at it while he caught his breath. It was a thing. It didn’t think or feel. But staring into its depths, the sorcerer admired its imitation of regret.

  And then it sang.

  In the first few months after he acquired it, that song used to terrify him. Haunting, sinister strains, like those of a reed whistle, would fill the night, bringing him nightmares of demons wearing human skin. They tore into each other, fed on their own innards and drank their own blood. He would wake up in a sweat, screaming and weeping like a child afraid of the dark. But no matter how many times he took it into his head to get rid of the crystal, he could never make his fingers uncurl from around its chain.

  It owned him, not the other way around.

  But in return for his service, it gave him the world. It showed him the mysteries of the south, the beauties of the west, the treasures of the east and the magics of the north.

  Then why, with all its power and cunning, could it not bring him the gods damned wizard?

  Thrice now it had failed, and the sorcerer was beginning to think the Trickster had spoken true. Each time he set a trap for her, something snatched her right out of his grasp.

  “Why?” he asked the crystal. “Why can’t you bring her to me? You want her as much as I do, I can feel it.” The stone was ever ravenous for power, and the wizard had so much she all but shone with it. Never had he encountered one so strong.

  He wanted her. Oh, yes, he wanted her very much. If he possessed such power he would no longer have need of this pathetic human shell. He could create a new one, in any form he fancied. He could change faces as he did clothes. He could be truly immortal; walk among the Others who hid from his sight.

  The wizard is no fool, the stone whispered, not in words but thoughts and ideas the sorcerer understood. She will not yield easily.

  “Then help me!” he screamed at it. “Tell me what to do!”

  She will not surrender her mind. You must draw her out where she is most vulnerable.

  “Yes,” he said, thinking fast. “I understand. I do.” The wizard was human and as any other human, her biggest weakness was her fragile body. If he wanted to bring her to her knees, he’d have to do it himself. “You always lead me true,” he crooned, cuddling the stone to his chest as he laid down to sleep. He would have his wizard.

  And as a treat, he would have the privilege of feeling the life drain out of her body.

  CHAPTER 32

  It was the first time in four months that Nia made it up the stairs from Nico’s study on her own. Bright sunlight blinded her in the courtyard, the autumn sky clear blue and the air crisp. She turned her face up to the sun’s warmth, listening to the earth and the trees begin preparing for their winter sleep. Summers were short this far north. Already the leaves were turning brilliant shades of red and yellow.

  The harvest was being gathered; the people sang as they worked. The earth had given them enough to fill their stores; there would be no empty stomachs this winter. Nia thanked the earth and sent a little wave of power into the ground to replenish the fields. It was a simple spell, one she’d done many times before. The power would lay sleeping with the earth, grow on its own until spring and then awaken to nourish everything in the kingdom.

  She wished she could ride out across the fields to see for herself how everything was faring. Alas, as the royal wizard, her first duty was to the king. The only reason she’d even made her way above ground was because Saeran was meeting with his advisors yet again and required her presence. Though she had her suspicions that he’d only asked her to attend to make sure she would breathe fresh air again. Sometimes she wondered who was looking after whom.

  Nia smiled at the stable hand who’d called a greeting to her. Time to see to her duties. She inhaled deeply one more time and then turned toward the king’s council room. The way wasn’t long, but it was arduous. The halls were filled with people, servants and guests, all preparing for Samhain. Nia would have to lead a procession to the altar again to thank the gods for a bountiful harvest. The celebration afterward would be no smaller than Beltaine night.

  There was a faire in the village, with merchants from all over the kingdom and farther come to display their wares. Though the queen’s passing had saddened many, she had only been among them for a very short time. What the people mourned more was their king’s loss. The news of Saeran’s illness and recovery was slowly spreading throughout the kingdom, though no one but those closest to him would ever know the full truth it. Nia doubted anyone else would believe it if they knew.

  Nia nodded to the guards at the top of the stairway. There were more of them throughout the castle, keeping an eye on the king. They had strict orders to come for her if they saw or heard anything suspicious. She knew Saeran chafed to be so closely watched, but until she could be sure the threat to him has passed, he would have to endure it.

  Once she mounted the stairs, there were no more crowds. The doors were all closed, all but the one to the council room, where she could hear men speaking.

  Nia frowned and slowed her step.

  “There will not be another queen,” Saeran was saying, his voice strained, as if he’d said it several times already.

  “But Sire,” one of the advisors argued, “the realm will need an heir. It will tear itself apart if you should die without one!”

  Saeran hadn’t told them the reason for his decision. Who would believe him? Even with a powerful wizard at his side, performing magic in plain sight, no one would take talk of dragons seriously. Until she’d met one herself, Nia had thought them to be no more than legend, and she had Others shadowing her step almost every day.

  “Was it the fever?” a timid voice asked. “We thought, all of us, that the wizard healed his Majesty.”

  “She did,” Saeran said tightly. “That is not the reason.”

  “Then what is?” the first advisor demanded.

  Nia pulled her shoulders back and entered the study. “Mind your tone, advisor Allon,” she told the old man swathed in purple robes. Allon was one of two advisors Nia had asked Saeran not to replace. He was old and pampered and often forgot his place, but he remembered a time most of them had forgotten, if they’d lived through it at all. His wisdom on the council was worth these brief spurts of insubordination. At least that was
what she told herself.

  “You have heard of this, I assume,” he said, his face turning ruddy. “His Majesty has decided not to take another wife. What do you make of it?”

  Nia met Saeran’s gaze. “It is not my place to question a royal decree,” she told Allon without looking at him. “Nor is it yours.”

  “That is precisely your place! You are the only one he will listen to.” His words fell silent at the sharp warning look she cast him. He blushed deeper and straightened in his seat, adopting a more measured tone when he spoke again. “What I mean is King Saeran has no siblings to provide a line of succession. If he dies heirless, the royal line will die with him. There are several noble houses eager enough to see one of theirs sit the throne that would go to war. If there is no one to take his Majesty’s place, the kingdom will be torn apart. You know this is so.”

  “There is also the matter of the Aegirans to consider,” Kvaran added.

  Saeran drew himself up. “What do you mean?”

  “The marriage was a bond of peace between Wilderheim and Aegiros. That bond is now broken. Queen Mari, may she be at peace, died in the land of the people who nearly destroyed an entire tribe.”

  “And what would you have had us do? Bow down to the Aegirans?”

  Kvaran steepled his fingers. “I am simply trying to point out that the circumstances of her death are not clear, and the wizard’s involvement might sow seeds of suspicion. Should they decide that Queen Mari’s death was deliberate, the tribe will retaliate.”

  There was silence after he finished speaking. It was a possibility Nia hadn’t considered. Only the midwife who’d held Mari’s hand as she died knew what Nia had done. She was the only one who could tell Mari’s family the truth of her death; that they’d done all they could to save her. But would they hear her? And if they did, would they believe her? A woman in Aegiros was expected to hold her tongue and defer to the men of her tribe: warriors, men whose only purpose in life was to fight for their shansher and conquer in his name.