A Young Man Without Magic (47 page)

But perhaps she could fight it off. Perhaps she could still free herself. Perhaps the spell could be broken in time.

Anrel tried to draw magic up from the Mother's earth, but he was standing on the railing of a bridge, over the middle of a river—the earth was too far away, and he had never learned to draw the Father's magic from the sky. There was no power to be had, not with his feeble skills.

His nerve broke, and even though he knew it could not help, knew that his words would not reach her, he cried, “No, Reva! Stop!”

But she couldn't hear him. She couldn't hear anyone but Lord Allutar, who was staring back at Anrel, his crooked little smile turning into a victorious grin as Reva pulled the noose snug around her throat, the knot behind her right ear.

“Stop her! She's ensorceled, not acting of her own will!” Anrel called, pointing. “Stop her!”

Some of the observers on the bridge moved forward uncertainly, to be met by the watchmen—but then Reva stepped off the railing, and it didn't matter anymore.

Anrel could hear the sickening crack clearly. He saw her twitch once, and go limp.

“Seize him!” Lord Allutar called, pointing at Anrel.

Anrel swallowed bile, staring at the landgrave.

Allutar had won again. He had killed his third victim, despite anything Anrel could do. Anrel had thrown away his old life to make Allutar pay for Valin's death, and now Allutar had destroyed Anrel's hopes of a new life with Tazia. Reva was dead, and with her, any prospect of marrying Tazia.

There was nothing left. The crowd had not rebelled, had not saved Reva. The burgrave's guardsmen were starting to push through the crowd, and there was no way Anrel could escape them on the crowded bridge.

Anrel turned away, away from the crowd, away from the guards, away from Reva's corpse, and looked down at the icy waters of the Galdin.

He had never been a strong swimmer, and he knew nothing about diving, but none of that mattered. He jumped from the railing of the bridge out into space, and with arms outstretched he plummeted toward the dark water below.

The water was bitterly cold. Even if the river had not frozen solid, this was still midwinter, and a mere day or two of relatively mild weather had done little to warm the chilly currents; hitting the water was a shock. The instant Anrel burst through the surface into the frigid darkness below, the river seemed to suck all the heat and life from his flesh. He struggled to force himself up toward light and air and warmth, but the water closed over his head and he could feel himself being dragged down.

His coat and boots were weighing him down. He pulled at the coat, freeing the rushes he had used for padding, and the stalks spun away through the water, but the garment was still heavy, still dragging, and he realized it was the weight of the coins sewn into the lining. As he fought to hold his breath and push upward he clawed at the fabric, and felt something tear.

Then at last he was able to thrust himself back toward the surface.

His head emerged from the black water and his teeth began chattering, but even so he could hear angry shouting from above, the shouting of many, many voices. He pulled an arm up and out and swung it forward, scooping at the water, driving himself forward. He did not know who was shouting or why; he could not distinguish words in the roar of noise, but he did not think he should stay to find out what was happening. He needed to get away before the burgrave's guards came after
him—not that he thought they would dive in after him, but they might well line the banks, ready to capture or kill him.

And he needed to get out of the water. He could feel the cold draining his strength; he knew that if he stayed in the water he would die, he would freeze, he would lose consciousness and sink down into the airless dark and never emerge.

He struck out for the south bank.

It was no more than thirty yards away, he knew that, but he was not at all sure he would make it. The cold was soaking into him, his wet clothes were dragging him down, his strength was fading.

“Mother of Us All, please . . .” he murmured to himself as he took another breath. He did not have time or energy to complete the prayer, or even the thought that had prompted it. The world seemed to be going dark around him, and he was unable to keep moving. His soaked clothing, his coat in particular, felt like iron armor weighing him down.

He reached out for energy.

A sudden rush of power surged through him, and he was alert once more. He swam desperately, and then his hand slapped onto ice, which shattered, but he pulled himself forward, onto thicker ice, and pulled himself up out of the river, his drenched attire pouring dirty water onto the ice and stone as he stood on hands and knees, shivering on the frozen bank.

He had lost his hat, of course; he turned to see it floating away, vanishing into the shadowy darkness beneath the bridge.

But then noise drew his gaze upward.

The crowd on the bridge was shouting, screaming, fighting; he could see raised fists, hands clutching throats, improvised weapons. Someone was weeping loudly. Several people were leaning over the rail, watching him crawl out of the water. They did not look happy.

“Alvos!” someone bellowed. “Come back! We'll defend you!”

Anrel hesitated, allowing himself to think for a moment.

When Reva's neck had snapped, and Lord Allutar had ordered his apprehension, he had reacted without thinking. He had failed in his attempt to save Reva, there was nothing more to be done for her, everything was lost, and he was standing there exposed before his enemies, so he had fled before any move could be made to capture him—but perhaps he had acted
hastily. He had given no thought to what the crowd would think, how they would react. He had not thought about what might become of Tazia. She and her family were still somewhere in that seething mob, in the midst of what appeared to be another riot. The crowd that had stood listening and done nothing while Reva climbed up the gallows and hanged herself had finally come to life, too late to do her any good.

He felt nothing for those people, not even contempt. They simply did not matter to him at the moment. Certainly, he felt no need to return to them. What would he do back there?

He got to his feet, peering at the opposite shore, hoping for some glimpse of Tazia or Nivain or Perynis, but he could make out no familiar faces; he recognized no clothing. From his present vantage point he could not see most of the people on the bridge, only those against or on the eastern railing, and none of the Lirs were there.

He rose to his feet and clambered up the stony bank onto the street that edged the river, where he paused anew. He could hear raised voices and clashing metal in the square and on the bridge, but he did not bother to look back.

If he turned left the road led to Beynos's eastern gate, and he could be out of the city and on the road to Lume in a matter of moments.

If he turned right, a few paces would bring him to the south end of the bridge, and he could try to make his way through the riot to find Tazia and make sure she was safe. He might even, he supposed, try to take command of the rioters, and lead them—but lead them where, and for what? All he had wanted was Reva's freedom, and it was too late for that. Any victory he might gain against the sorcerers would be short-lived and futile; this place was mere hours from Lume, whence the emperor's army could be sent to put down any rebellion. Any attempt to overthrow the empire's present system by violence must surely be doomed; the sorcerers controlled all the magic . . .

Well, not
all
the magic. There were witches. There were people like himself, who did not work as witches but could draw power—he was fairly sure he had used magic to warm himself in the river just now. But the sorcerers certainly controlled
most
of the magic, and the emperor controlled the army, and what rabble could stand against those?

And if by some miracle they did overthrow the empire, what could they possibly put in its place that would be any better? Without the sorcerers, they might all starve; the landgraves did their best to keep the fields fertile, and even with that, the country was on the edge of famine. Remove the sorcerers and people would be starving in the streets.

No, there was no point in trying to lead the rioters. They could not hope to accomplish anything constructive. If he turned right, it would be to make his way through the mob and see that Tazia was safe, to be with her.

But if he did that, what could he offer her? He was a fugitive, now more than ever—he did not think his cousin's affections would be enough to restrain Lord Allutar after
this
. What kind of life could he possibly hope to give Tazia? What could he do to protect her against the rioters?

And he had failed her. He had tried to save Reva, and he had failed. He had let Tazia's sister die because he had never thought about the possibility that Lord Allutar might have enchanted her after Anrel's precipitous flight from the house where she was held.

He had failed Reva as he had failed Valin, as he had failed himself, as he had failed everyone he had tried to help. If he had been a sorcerer he might have made something of himself, he might have had something to offer Tazia, but as a child he had chosen to reject his magical heritage, to live without magic.

He had nothing now, nothing but however much of his hidden money might still remain in the torn lining of his coat, nothing to make himself worthy of Tazia.

She was probably already fleeing back to the Boar's Head with her family; Anrel could not see any of them wanting to stay around for the riot. She was probably cursing his name for giving her false hopes and then allowing Reva to die. She probably wished she had never warned him about her father's scheme; who knows, perhaps it would have worked after all.

He could not hope that she would still want him to court her. Certainly, her father would not permit it. He had lost her. All he could be to her now was a reminder of her sister's death, and he could not ask her to live with that.

There was nothing for him in Beynos, nothing but heartbreak and disaster.

Perhaps it would be better to turn back, to plunge back into the river and let himself freeze or drown, but no, he was not ready for that, not yet. He did not want to face his ancestors' spirits with his soul in its present sad state. He had no prospects, no family, nothing, but he was still alive, and that was a gift not lightly to be discarded. He might yet atone somehow for his failings.

He turned left, and trotted up the muddy street toward the town's eastern gate.

Perhaps he could send Tazia a message from Lume, once he had found himself a place—a letter, an apology. He would not beg her forgiveness; he did not deserve it. He would certainly not ask her to join him. It would be unkind, though, not to let her know he was alive and well; while he could not imagine she would ever want to see him again, he did not want her to feel guilty about his circumstances.

Behind him the roar of the mob grew louder and fiercer, and he thought he heard voices calling for Alvos, but he ignored them. Indeed, he quickened his pace.

When Anrel arrived at the city wall, dripping and shivering, the gate stood open, and the guard standing beside it was staring past him. He turned and looked back.

A thick plume of black smoke was rising from the center of Beynos. Distant shouting could be heard, as well. Too late, the crowd had turned on the sorcerers and their servants.

But that no longer concerned him.

“What happened?” the guard asked. “What's going on?” He held a spear, but seemed uncertain what he should do with it.

“I don't know,” Anrel lied, with a final glance back. “I heard the noise, but I did not trouble myself to investigate. I have urgent business in Lume.”

The guard lowered his gaze and looked at Anrel, as if noticing him for the first time. His eyes narrowed. “How did you get wet?” he asked.

“I fell in the river,” Anrel replied, in a tone of utter disgust. “Just back there.” He pointed. “The wind blew my hat off, and it landed on
the ice, and when I tried to recover it the ice broke and I fell in.” He shivered. “It's too cold for a swim! Better to lose my hat than to freeze to death.”

The guard grimaced sympathetically. “You should get inside, then—somewhere warm!”

Anrel shook his head. “I need to get to Lume. Quickly.”

The guard frowned at that, then shrugged. “Go on, then,” he said. “Please yourself.” He motioned toward the gate and the road beyond.

Anrel hurried through the gate, past the pale, onto the high road.

He had been afraid that the guard would detain him on some pretext, and it was a relief that had not happened. The man's job was to keep trouble
out
of the city, not in, so it wasn't too great a surprise, but it
was
a relief.

Anrel was not sorry to be out of Beynos; his stay there had been a disaster almost from start to finish. He had let Reva die. He had left Tazia behind. He had been betrayed by Garras. He had let Lord Allutar know he was alive and near. He had lost his hat, and now he was on his way to Lume, tired and wet and thoroughly chilled, still condemned to death, still a fugitive, and once again alone.

And it was cold, the temperature dropping—the brief thaw seemed to be ending. He quickened his pace once he was clear of the gate, breaking into a brisk trot, as much to keep warm as to avoid pursuit or get to Lume more quickly.

The road was largely clear of snow, at any rate; traffic between Lume and Beynos had been sufficient to clear it away, or trample it into the half-frozen mud. Nor was there any risk of losing his way; he needed merely follow the ruts left by the regular coaches that followed this route. The footing was occasionally slippery or uneven, but he was able to keep up a good pace nonetheless.

He shivered constantly, alternately clutching his coat about him and flapping it in the breeze to dry it, but he kept moving. His fingers and toes went numb, and his jaw began to ache from his efforts to keep his teeth from chattering.