The Awakened Mage (56 page)

Matt watched her march away, suddenly numb. Then he turned to Rafel, who hadn’t bothered to pull his own knapsack from the cart.

Well, why would he? He wasn’t going to need it again.

“Are you sure you want to go through with this?” he asked Veira’s calm-faced nephew. “It’s not too late to change your mind.”

Rafel smiled, softly and sadly, not the kind of smile he’d ever seen on Asher’s face. “Thanks, Matthias … but it was always too late to change my mind.”

After that there was nothing left to say. Without thinking, Matt embraced him. Felt Rafel’s fear and trembling courage. Then, side by side and silent, they followed in Veira’s footsteps.

Damn,
thought Gar, and threw down his pen. Ancient Doranen grammar was a quagmire, and he was rapidly sinking. Remembering his bhthe assurances that he could
easily
read the books they’d found in Barl’s hidden library, he winced. What a shame there was no way of getting back in there. Perhaps his ancestors had thought to bring some school texts with them—an introduction to basic Old Tongue, for instance…

But the long-lost vault’s door was warded against him, and there was no way now of breaking in. And besides, he
could
read all the other books he’d taken from those dusty shelves. It was only Barl’s diary that was proving a challenge. A deliberate attempt to foil prying eyes? Or was tortured self-expression just one more thing that made her unique?

A tentative knuckle-rap on the chamber’s closed door interrupted his profitless inner complaints. He looked up. “What is it?”

The door swung open on soundless hinges, revealing

Darran. Gar bit his lip, pinched with conscience. The old man looked tired. It was asking too much for him to care-take this whole Tower by himself and Conroyd knew it. Bastard. Instead of sitting warm and cosy in this library he should be helping Darran, prince or no prince, but nothing was more important than translating Barl’s diary.

Not even an old man’s precarious health.

“I’m so sorry to disturb you, sir, but I thought you should know: the carriage will be here in an hour.”

An
hour?
Was it that late? Had he really been sitting here without stirring for nearly seven hours? Startled, he looked at the clock on the fireplace mantel and saw that yes, he had.

Seven hours, and only five more pages deciphered to show for it.

Abruptly he was aware of muscles aching. Of a belly growling for food and a bladder in need of emptying. Stifling a groan he pushed his chair back and stood, hands pressed into the small of his back.

“I thought you were going to bring me dinner?”

Darran sighed. “I did.”

Oh yes. So he did. And there it was, still untouched on its tray, which he’d ordered be put down somewhere, any where, just get out and leave him to work! Darran had left it on the side table next to the armchair.

Shuffling out from behind his desk, Gar spared him a swift, apologetic smile. “Sorry.”

As he reached out a hand to filch a slice of pinkly tender beef, Darran swooped. Snatched the tray beyond his reach and retreated. “It’ll be stone cold by now, sir. I’ll just go and heat it up for you.”

He nodded. “Fine. And while you do that I’ll attend to my appearance. When you come back make sure to bring a jug of icewine with you. Unless of course Conroyd saw fit to confiscate my cellar along with everything else?”

“No,” said Darran after a moment’s hesitation. “No, you’ve still a supply of good vintage yet.”

“Obviously an oversight on Conroyd’s part.”

“Obviously,” said Darran, sniffing, and returned to the kitchen.

His head full of obscure phrasing and past-participal constructions, Gar drifted upstairs to his bedchamber and set about putting himself to rights. Made sure to keep pondering those recalcitrant participles, because provided he remained focused on the subtle differences between “having” and “keeping”, then he was sure not to start thinking about why it was he had to bathe and shave and change his clothes.

If he let himself think about “why”, there was a good chance he’d drop in his tracks like an arrow-struck stag and never get up again.

By the time he returned downstairs, clean and refreshed and impeccably attired in black, efficient Darran had contrived to reheat his neglected dinner and unearth a particularly splendid jug of icewine.

Swigging it straight from the jug would be ungenteel, so he poured the icewine neatly into a paper-thin crystal glass—something
else
Conroyd had neglected to steal? Really, the man was slipping—and drank without pause until it was empty.

Assaulted with alcohol, his head spun a little. He smiled and poured a second glass.

This time Darran had pointedly left the dinner tray on his desk, after tidily putting all his scribbled notes to one side.

Gar sat down, speared meat with his fork and ate without tasting as he considered again Barl’s diary and the entries he’d transcribed so far.

I am afraid,
she had written.
In the madness of war we slipped away, but I know we can’t hide forever. Morgan brooks no interference, nor leaves unpunished the slightest transgression—and my crime against him is not slight. We swore an oath together and he ‘11 hold me to it or see me dead. By his reckoning he loves me and Talor forgive me, I love him. Loved him. Loved the man he used to be—not the monster he’s become. I must find a way to defeat that monster, else surely we are doomed. And all the world with us.

There was no indication when or where she’d recorded that entry. Most likely it was during the terrible flight from Dorana.

Before she and her fellow refugees stumbled into the sleepy land of Lur.

Another entry, some time later:

Two more of our children died today. We buried them in an Olken graveyard. These simple people are good, and kind. I can’t repay them with bloodshed and destruction. There must be a way to keep this fertile land safe.

And another, still later:

He is coming, he is coming, I can feel it. Tabithe and Jerrot say I’m just dreaming, they say Morgan is dead, must be dead, the mage wars were unsurvivable… but I know otherwise. I’ve not told a soul of the power we discovered, the key to immortality. If I told them they’d see me as Morgan in their midst and I’d be killed out of hand, I’m certain. And if I die, there’ll be no stopping him.

Immortality? Gar pushed his dinner aside and poured himself more wine. It seemed no more likely on this second reading than it had the first. Immortality was a myth. A dream. Not even the ancient Doranen, magicians powerful beyond the imaginings of their tamer descendants, could aspire to such a feat.

Could they?

She’d said more about it, further on …

There is some risk, in the making of this Wall. Not great, however, and I am a master magician. Morgan’s equal, though he was always loath to admit it. When it is done and Lur is forever sealed safe behind it I think I shall honor my oath to Morgan and transmute myself immortal. Not for any base desire for power, or to feed some gross appetite for worship. I am not Morgan. I’ll do it because I know he lives, and will change himself soon if he hasn’t already. Then he will find us, no matter how long it takes to search each corner of the world. When he does I must be waiting for him. Ten years. One hundred. One thousand. He will come and I must face him. Defeat him. No other magician lives who might stand in his way.

Gar sat back in his chair, shaking his head. Poured himself a third glass of wine and drank it faster than such a superb vintage deserved. Insanity. What he’d translated was insanity, the exhausted ramblings of a woman in shock, in mourning and soaked to the marrow in grief. No one could live a thousand years—which was a shame, really. To speak with Barl? A historian’s dream.

“Sir?”

Rudely jerked from gentle fantasy, he looked up. Darran again. Hovering like a—what was it Asher used to call him? A constipated scarecrow?—in the library’s open doorway.

Asher.
Damn.
And he’d been doing so well, not thinking of him.

“Sir…” Tentatively, Darran entered the room. “I’m sorry. Lord Jarr— His Majesty’s carriage awaits you.”

“Does it?” He flicked a glance at the mantel clock: it was a half-hour till midnight, exactly. Slowly, deliberately, he poured himself more wine. Lifted the glass and admired the way the firelight shafted through the pale green liquid within. “How prompt he is. A man of his word.”

“Yes, sir,” said Darran. “Sir… please … you have to leave now.”

He let his gaze shift to Barl’s secret diary. His last hope of salvation. Asher’s last hope of life. Hours of work and he was only halfway through it, with no answers found. No miracles revealed.

And now time had run out.

He emptied the fresh glass of icewine down his throat in one long, burning rush. Darran’s expression was disapproving, but that was just too bad. If he thought his prince could get through this night sober he was very sadly mistaken. With delicate precision he placed the wineglass on the desk and stood for Darran’s inspection.

“Well? How do I look? Don’t say drunk.”

Darran’s face was rigid. “You look very proper, sir.”

He smiled, as bright and brittle as the icewine churning in his belly. “Are you sure you won’t come with me? I expect there’ll be room for one more.”

Darran flinched. “Thank you, sir, but no. I’m content to forgo the pleasure.”

“And it will be a pleasure. For many.”

“Alas, sir, yes,” said Darran, and stepped backwards, hinting, “Sir…”

“I know, I know!” he snapped. “The carriage is waiting.”

Darran followed him downstairs and opened the Tower doors for him. Ordinary torchlight spilled inside; he could’ve asked Conroyd to arrange for glimfire, but knowing how much pleasure refusal would give he’d refrained. Even though it meant more work for Darran. At the bottom of the Tower steps there was indeed a carriage, blazoned with House Jarralt’s crest. The falcon now wore a thunderbolt crown. For a moment he thought he was going to lose his bulwark of icewine down the front of his black silk tunic.

Seeing him, one of Conroyd’s lackeys jumped off the carriage’s rear traveling step and opened the nearest door.

“I’ll wait up for you, sir,” said Darran, standing back from the door. His eyes were anxious.

Gar started down the steps. “Don’t bother. I might be some time.”

“It’s no bother,” Darran called after him.

At the point of entering Conroyd’s ostentatious carriage, he paused and looked back. “Fine. Suit yourself.”

He climbed inside. The lackey slammed the door and clambered back onto the traveling step. A whip-crack. A creaking of harness and wood. Then they were moving.

Gar let his head fall against the cushions and wished he were dead. Or really drunk.

The Square was a solid sea of Olken spectators wrapped warm against the midnight chill, packed on three sides around the space in the middle that still contained the cart, and the cage, and Asher. Conspicuous in blue and crimson, stationed at every opportunity amongst the crowd, beside the cage, wherever there was space to stand, and armed with both pikestaffs and truncheons, were Pellen Orrick’s City Guard. Looking keyed-up. Looking grim.

The Square’s fourth side was taken up with an un usually elevated dais reserved for the king and such dignitaries as still remained in the City. Most of them were Olken too. Gar, staring through the carriage window as it rolled slowly to a halt, saw how few Doranen sat with them and frowned. Odd. He’d imagined they’d be the most eager of all to see the upstart Olken die.

The carriage door opened and he got out, a few paces from the foot of the stairs attached to the dais. Heart uncomfortably thudding, he let his gaze touch the Square and the people, but not the cage or its inhabitant and only briefly, sickly, the block and the straw and the hooded man in black beside them, holding a sharpened silver axe. Was it the same man who’d dealt with Timon Spake? He couldn’t tell.

Everything was lit as bright as day by the enormous balls of glimfire hovering overhead. There was a hissing snap as oile of them shivered, showering sparks. A moment later a second followed suit. Then a third. A few cries went up from those folks stung by the spitting magic.

Payne Sorvold stood nearby in conversation with Nole Daltrie. Two of Conroyd’s closest friends; of course they’d make sure to be here. Doubtless they expected high office in the new Doranen court. Seeing the uncertain glimfire, hearing the loud protests from the crowd, Sorvold broke off his amused rejoinder to some quip of Daltrie’s and reinforced the stuttering magic.

Turning back, Sorvold noticed Conroyd’s carriage and then the newest arrival. Excused himself to Daltrie and approached, his expression smoothed to a scrupulous politeness. “Your Highness,” he said, offering a token bow. “His Majesty asked that I greet you and escort you to your seat. He will be here himself momentarily.”

“Hoping for a grand entrance?” said Gar. His head was pounding; he’d not drunk nearly enough wine. “Typical. What’s wrong with the glimfire?”

Sorvold’s eyes had widened at his comment, and his tone. He said, sounding wary, “Nothing, sir. There’s a lot of it up there, and larger than would normally be called, but you’ve no need for concern.”

“Did I sound concerned?” he said.

Sorvold took refuge behind formality. “If you’d like to come with me, sir?”

“Oh, Payne,” he sighed. “There is nothing I would like to do less.”

“Sir?”

“Never mind,” he said curtly. “Let’s go.”

As he fell into step beside Sorvold he caught sight of Pellen Orrick, resplendent in crimson, standing some ten feet away with his attention focused keenly on the crowd. Feeling eyes upon him, the captain turned. Acknowledged the royal presence with a nod. Gar nodded back, wondering what went on behind that cold, composed face. He’d had the impression Orrick and Asher were friendly, but if Orrick was disturbed by any of this he didn’t show it.