Sorcerer to the Crown

by Zen Cho

  Mrs. Midsomer stared at her. “But he is!”

  Georgiana had turned her attention to the damp, shivering thaumaturges on the Cobb, however.

  “What have you to say in your defence, interrupting the slumbers of an old female for such a trifle? If you could not put up with Lorelei’s freaks you ought not to have brought her over the border. She has a tantrum regular, once every other day, and twice on Sundays.”

  Damerell said, “I do not understand you, ma’am. I see no old female here—only a queen among dragons, ageless and eternal, of matchless elegance and unsurpassed majesty.”

  “We apologise for our temerity in calling you,” said Zacharias. “But we were in desperate straits, and you seemed the only person who would be able to influence Mrs. Midsomer. We hoped you would be so good as to condescend to exert your influence on our behalf, and persuade Mrs. Midsomer to listen to our explanation.”

  Georgiana snorted, but she had always had a soft spot for Damerell, who was looking up at her with unmistakable admiration. His flattery had the desired effect.

  “She will listen, though much good will it do you,” said Georgiana. “A more obdurate creature than Lorelei I never knew. However, you will attend, Lorelei, and discover what became of your precious Leofric—not that you were very kind to the poor fellow before he left Fairy.”

  “You believe I killed Leofric, is that correct?” said Zacharias. He turned to the Presiding Committee, who stood in a soggy huddle, stunned by the storm, and staring in dull amaze at Georgiana Without Ruth. “And I stand accused before you of having, on the same night, murdered my guardian, my mentor and manumitter, Sir Stephen Wythe.

  “I have not sought to deny the accusations before, knowing that those who wished to believe them would do so even in the absence of evidence, and not wishing to discuss what was so painful to me. But I did not kill Sir Stephen. Nor did I kill Leofric. How could I have encompassed such a design, even supposing I were so unfeeling as to desire to injure my protector? Sir Stephen was the Sorcerer Royal, Leofric a familiar of great power and cunning, and I was but a journeyman thaumaturge. I was wholly unequipped to do battle with either of them and survive unscathed, much less defeat them.”

  “You ate Leofric, of course,” spat Mrs. Midsomer. “You need not think you will fool me so easily! I see his mark upon you. Your every enchantment smells of him. Oh, I know you have devoured him, poor Leofric—”

  “And he has devoured me,” said Zacharias.

  This put a stopper on Mrs. Midsomer’s rant. She gaped at him. Georgiana chuckled.

  Damerell said, in the voice of a man enlightened, “Ah!”

  “What do you mean?” cried Midsomer, but his wife spoke over him.

  “Leofric lives?” she said. She placed her webbed hand on her heart, her eyes blazing. “Tell me.”

  Zacharias told her. It was the first time he had spoken to any living person of the night Sir Stephen died.

  • • •

  A log had tumbled out of the grate. It sat, charred and smoking, by the carpet, and Zacharias knelt to retrieve it. He thought Sir Stephen had nodded off over his work, his familiar’s head resting upon his shoulder.

  Sir Stephen was growing older, loath as they both were to admit it. He worked as hard as ever, travelling tirelessly between worlds and passing long evenings in his study, but there was no escaping the fact that he no longer possessed all the vigour of his youth. It was not uncommon for Zacharias to walk into Sir Stephen’s study to find him drowsing over his papers.

  Zacharias did what he could to relieve his burden. There was still considerable discontent within the Society over his appointment as Sir Stephen’s secretary. Every unnatural philosopher in London had a son or nephew they believed better suited for the role than a charity case plucked from a slave ship.

  But Zacharias was to ignore all such murmurs, said Sir Stephen. “We understand each other,” he said. “Such confidence exists between us, as makes you more useful to me than any sorcerer’s son could be.”

  Zacharias had his own doubts as to the perfection of their mutual understanding. Sir Stephen had grand ambitions for Zacharias—fine visions of his future, for which he had been preparing the ground since Zacharias was a child.

  But Zacharias knew himself to be unfitted for public life by both disposition and inclination. The role of secretary to Sir Stephen suited him perfectly, for it comprised what was, in his judgment, the most interesting parts of the work of the Sorcerer Royal: research, the invention of new formulae, and the working out of technical problems presented by the Government and the Society, all carried out with minimal intercourse with the outside world.

  Sir Stephen’s position, which kept him so much in the public eye, tempted Zacharias not at all. But he kept his own counsel, not wishing to provoke an argument. The disagreement was bound to arise at some point, but he would do nothing to hasten it. He was as happy as he had ever been—contented with his work, of real use to his benefactor. Perhaps it was no wonder that he had no premonition of disaster that evening—that, upon entering Sir Stephen’s study, he had seen nothing amiss but a log.

  It was only when he had retrieved the stray faggot that he rose and saw what Leofric was about. The dragon’s serpentine form was curled around Sir Stephen’s chair, his forelegs propped up on the armrest. His head was bowed over Sir Stephen’s immobile form, and he had already commenced upon his meal.

  For a moment Zacharias did not understand what he saw. He had known Leofric nearly all his life, but they had never been on intimate terms. Leofric was not only magical and ancient, but something of a snob: in common with many familiars, he thought all mortals other than his master beneath his notice.

  “Leofric,” said Zacharias, “do you think that wise? You may wake Sir Stephen.”

  The dragon’s jewelled eyes met Zacharias’s without alarm.

  “Nothing will wake him,” said Leofric. He licked his chops.

  Zacharias saw that Sir Stephen no longer had a left hand. That was why Leofric’s jaws were red. It did not trouble Sir Stephen, for he was dead.

  The strength went from Zacharias’s limbs, and he grasped at the table to avoid falling over. He was trembling with horror. He already knew what had happened, but his mind would not admit the truth.

  “Sir Stephen has been taken unwell,” he heard himself say. He must not leap to conclusions. Something might yet be done. He must unloosen Sir Stephen’s neckcloth, get a glass of brandy down his throat. “You must go for a doctor—inform Lord Burrow—”

  “Stephen is dead,” said Leofric. He spoke with a horrible matter-of-fact detachment, though he had seemed fond of Sir Stephen in life. Leofric had accompanied him everywhere; had told him, with apparent sincerity, that Sir Stephen was his favourite of all the Sorcerers Royal he had served.

  “What have you done to him?” said Zacharias. That missing hand could not be denied, however his mind strove to reject the image. He looked down and saw that his own hands were shaking.

  “I? I did nothing. It was his heart that killed him,” said Leofric, speaking still in that intolerable, unfeeling voice. “I told him he would not last if he did not take care. He killed himself with overwork, as I said he would. He might have had many more years of sorcery.”

  He looked down upon Sir Stephen’s still face, and for the first time a trace of regret entered his voice.

  “Now look how he has served himself out,” he said. “Dead before sixty, with your position as yet unassured, and so many of his plans unrealised. And I at liberty to exact my reward prematurely.”

  “Your reward?” said Zacharias.

  “I pledged myself to Stephen’s service, body and soul, for his lifetime,” said Leofric. “In return for which, he agreed he should be mine upon death. Body and soul.”

  This was the first Zacharias learnt of the Exchange, for no sorcerer willingly spoke of
the grim deal he struck with his familiar—the price demanded by every magical creature before it would submit to bondage.

  He had often complained to Sir Stephen of the opaqueness of the field of thaumaturgy. There was so much that was not known, or only half-known, because magicians were so jealous of their secrets. Each generation took some of its discoveries with it to the grave.

  “What learning may not we be losing by this foolish attachment to mystery?” Zacharias had argued. “Surely transparency would serve us all better, and none could lose by it.”

  Sir Stephen had not been convinced. “After all, the very essence of magic is its inscrutability. No one could become a sorcerer without one great secret.”

  And this was the great secret. Zacharias had not conceived that it could be so horrible.

  “You need not look so distressed,” said Leofric. “Stephen was prepared for his end. The Exchange really only poses difficulties for those sorcerers who believe in salvation. Stephen was always in two minds about heaven. Forsaking it did not come so hard to him as it would to others.”

  “I thought you loved him,” said Zacharias.

  He was surprised at how calm he sounded. His voice seemed to have its own separate life, which had nothing to do with the rest of him. The weight of a terrible sorrow pressed against his ribs, but he would not let it crush him yet.

  “Who would render such service as I have purely for love?” said Leofric. “It is no more than the bargain every sorcerer strikes. I have performed my end of the contract. Now it is come time for my remuneration.”

  “Do not take him,” said Zacharias, the words seeming to flow from him without his volition. Surely the anguish could not continue. It was intolerable. “Pray—pray do not.”

  “It was agreed,” said Leofric. He bent his head again.

  Zacharias could never explain the impulse that overtook him then. When he reflected upon it later, in the cold light of day, he was not persuaded that he would make the offer again.

  But at the time, his shock, the unreality of the scene, and the vivid memory of Sir Stephen—the near-conviction, impossible to contradict, that at any moment he would open those bright blue eyes, with their usual look of pride and affection—all combined to rob Zacharias of his instinct of self-preservation.

  “Would not you consider a substitute?” he said.

  Curiosity glinted in Leofric’s amber eyes. “What do you propose?”

  Zacharias swallowed.

  “You may have me,” he said, “in replacement for Sir Stephen.”

  Leofric hissed with laughter. “You! Child, for six hundred years I have served the Sorcerer Royal. No lesser magician could satisfy me.”

  “It was not my intention to suggest that you should devour me only when I was dead,” said Zacharias. He was familiar with the cuisine of Fairyland, having read the memoirs and travelogues of adventurous thaumaturges. In these civilised times the Fairy Court only served at its banquets courses which were no longer alive, but that had not always been the case. “Could not you satisfy yourself upon me while I was yet alive? Would not that please you better than a corpse?”

  He faltered over the last word. It seemed so hideous to be referring to Sir Stephen as such.

  “What a very interesting proposition,” said Leofric. His head was arrested in its downward swoop, the scales upon his neck gleaming dully in the candlelight.

  For the first time Zacharias realised what extremely sharp teeth Leofric had, and how numerous they were.

  “It would hurt you,” said Leofric. “You would survive—but not for very long.”

  “You would have all of me, upon my death,” said Zacharias. “And you would have had the pleasure of a living meal before then.”

  Leofric abandoned Sir Stephen’s body and dropped down on his haunches, the better to consider Zacharias.

  “It could be done,” he said. “I should have to enter you. You will find the enforced intimacy a trial. I am no garrulous enthusiast, no chattering blockhead, as you know, but you would be aware of my presence at all times. You would never be alone—never wholly yourself—again.”

  He paused for reflection, and a shiver went along his wings. “If I occupied your person, that would make you a sorcerer. One soul for two sorcerers is a bad bargain, you cannot deny.”

  “Then it is fortunate, is it not, that I would not be a sorcerer for very long?” said Zacharias.

  “Do you truly wish to sacrifice yourself for your guardian?” said Leofric. “Recall: Stephen was ageing, and you are yet young. He understood the deal he struck. You do not owe him so much.”

  “I owe him a great deal,” said Zacharias. “But what I offer, I offer for the great affection I bore him. And for the love he bore me.”

  As he spoke, he knew all he said to be true. Love and grief bore him up. He looked unwaveringly at the dragon, bolstered by the courage they lent him.

  Leofric was silent. Then he lifted his head, his eyes glowing.

  “It would be churlish of me to reject such a gift,” he said. “There is a final point to settle, however.”

  He coughed, and continued with a touch of primness:

  “There is my reputation to think of. My acquaintance in Fairyland sneer because I have elected to pass my days at the service of a mortal magician. The only reason they have not thrown me off altogether is because the mortal I acknowledge as my master is the supreme magician of magicians—the chosen of all sorcerers in Britain. I can be familiar to no lesser personage than the Sorcerer Royal.”

  Zacharias stared. Yet there was a nightmarish logic to it. He knew, as well as Leofric, that Sir Stephen had intended that Zacharias should be his successor, when old age or death should have put it out of his power to continue to perform his duties.

  “The staff is in the stand,” said Leofric. “You need only take it up. It will know you, I promise.”

  Zacharias thought of what Sir Stephen’s life had been. He had had influence, yes—he had been esteemed by his colleagues, had mingled with the good and great of the land, and enjoyed the many fruits of his labours. But thirty years ago Sir Stephen had been one of the most lauded young innovators in unnatural philosophy, who by his researches had promised to deepen humanity’s understanding of magic, and strike out fresh paths untried by any thaumaturge before him.

  What discoveries had he made since he had taken up the staff? What time had he had to pursue his own researches? He had been consumed by the neverending work of managing his wayward flock of thaumaturges, ingratiating himself with the Fairy Court, and appeasing a Government that thought Britain ought to be able to conquer magic by main force, as they did other nations.

  Zacharias had hoped for a different life. But he had been given so much—far more than most thought he deserved—far more than he might otherwise have had. He had known all along that he would have to pay for it.

  “If I take up the staff, you will leave Sir Stephen be?” he said.

  “He will be left to go his own way, to salvation, or damnation—whichever he merits,” said Leofric. “And I will serve you as familiar until the end of your life, whenever that may be, by the terms of this new Exchange.”

  “Well,” said Zacharias. “You cannot say fairer than that.”

  He stepped across the room and took up the staff.

  Leofric vanished, and the room filled with thick black smoke. Zacharias choked on it, coughed, and struggled to breathe, but he could only draw in lungfuls of smoke, which coalesced into a deadweight within his chest. Power ran through his limbs. His vision became suddenly, almost painfully keen.

  Sir Stephen’s body lay limp and undisturbed in his chair. Sir Stephen rose from it, his ghostly countenance drawn with horror. He said:

  “Zacharias, what have you done?”

  Zacharias did not answer.

  The pain had begun—an agony that
clutched his stomach like a vise, and gnawed unbearably at his vitals. It would not always be so bad, for he was usually granted a remittance during the day. Wishing, probably, to prolong his feast, Leofric reserved the worst attacks for midnight. At times Zacharias could almost believe himself unaffected, save for the feeling that dogged him, that he had lost something the night Sir Stephen died, and would never recover it.

  He did not see Leofric again, for Leofric was always with him. The dragon had only spoken the truth. Zacharias was never wholly himself again.

  25

  WHETHER IT WAS the exertion of battling Mrs. Midsomer that had worn him out, or whether disclosing the burden he had borne since Sir Stephen’s death had imparted some much-needed peace, Zacharias slept soundly that night. He roused at the first knock and lay for a moment gazing at the rays of morning’s first light stealing past the drapes. He felt perfectly relaxed, and the accustomed headache was notable for its absence.

  Prunella was at the door when he opened it. Zacharias was so used to tempests and disasters that he did not even recoil at this breach of etiquette, but said:

  “I shall get my staff.”

  “Do, for we may need it,” said Prunella. She was dressed, though it was early, and her face was unwontedly grave. “It is no emergency, but with this meeting at the Society today I do not know when we shall next have the chance to speak alone, and I could not endure the mystery for much longer.”

  She refused to say any more till they were in her sitting room, and she had secured the door.

  “Are you in great pain at the moment, Zacharias?” she said abruptly.

  “Not at all. I am very well,” said Zacharias automatically, but then he recalled that she knew—indeed, everyone knew. It felt unnatural to say more, but Prunella would assume he was dissembling if he did not. He added, with difficulty:

  “Leofric tends to feed at midnight. He knows I must have energy for the day. In any case, he did not trouble me last night. He is not unreasonable.”

  “I think he is disgusting,” said Prunella. “You need not frown at me so, Zacharias. I hope he hears me! It is only the truth. My familiars will want their reward in time, but they would never hurt me while I was capable of feeling it.”