The Wizard King (16 page)

Ranulf was ready to launch into another round of reasoning when Jaren waved him off, knowing full well that Athaya would go to the Sage whether they advised her against it or not. “Maybe you should hold off until you have more practice turning aside the corbals,” he suggested, hoping that if he could not prevent this confrontation he might at least stall it for a while. “The Sage is obviously a master at it and might use the crystals against you.”

His hopes were painfully short-lived. “I don’t have time for that,” Athaya said, steadfast. “None of us do. The Sage’s adherents or mine… we’re all one and the same to Durek and the Tribunal. We have to try and stop the Sage’s incursions before Durek and Lukin start taking their vengeance for this invasion out on
us.
”

* * * *

The first thing Athaya sensed when the dizziness passed was the crisp scent of saltwater laced with the stench of rotting fish. From farther away came the calming rush of waves lazily rolling onto the beach just outside the cove’s mouth.

Jaren squatted in the dry sand at her side and scried her eyes for signs of illness. “How do you feel?”

Athaya glanced up at him wryly. “A whole lot better than the last time I was here.”

Shifting to a comfortable position on the sand, Athaya brushed her gaze over the tiny grotto near the convent of Saint Gillian’s, spying telltale signs of her last sojourn here. It had been close to a year ago when Tonia and Jaren had released her from the bonds of the sealing spell, but vestiges of those anguished weeks remained. To her left, the cavern walls bore blackened scars etched by a wayward fire-spell, and to her right were piles of rubble and ash that had been fist-sized stones before her spells had blown them into powder.

“Can you walk?”

“I think so,” she said, wobbling a little as she rose to her feet, “but I won’t be casting any spells for a while.” If she suspected it before, the woolly feeling in her head now proved it for a fact: the extra measure of magic she had obtained from the sealing spell was completely gone. She was returned to what she had been in the beginning; a powerful adept, but nothing more.

Once Jaren was sure she could walk without stumbling, he led her out of the cove and into the blinding glare of a cloudless morning. “How far is the manor from here?”

“At a guess, I’d say twenty miles. Once we get into the shire itself, things should start looking familiar. My family often spent the summers in Nadiera after Father and Dagara were married. We can make it most of the way today and plan to arrive at the manor tomorrow morning.”

Athaya wasn’t delighted with the thought of such a long trek, but she and Jaren had both agreed that it was their safest course of action. They could hardly pop into view on the manor grounds themselves without being noticed, and Jaren was adamant that they scout the surrounding area in advance—and give Athaya the chance to recover from the strain of the spell—before making their presence known. And other than the manor itself, the cove was one of the few places in northwest Caithe that Athaya could envision accurately enough for translocation.

At least,
she mused,
a day’s delay will give me some time to think what on earth I’m going to say to the man when I see him.

The day was fine for walking—this close to the sea, the oppressive heat of July was blown to the south by strong breezes—and instead of seeking an inn, Athaya and Jaren camped that night in a grove of oaks, the bulk of their journey behind them. Late the next morning, they came upon the village of Coakley, less than two miles from the manor itself.

Rather than avoiding the village, Athaya and Jaren decided to pass through it, learning what they could about the Sage’s grip on the shire before confronting him directly. In their drab and threadbare peasant clothes, she and Jaren looked like any other villagers going about the day’s errands; if they were careful, no one would give them a second look.

It had been several years since Athaya had been to Coakley, but the change in the sleepy hamlet was obvious. Coakley was now an occupied town and temporary home to many members of the Sage’s advancing army. Armed men in silver-edged black livery dotted the dusty streets, and villagers went about their business giving them a wide and wary berth. Magic was displayed openly here—even flaunted, as witchlights burned like lanterns in every window despite the glare of the sun. Near the river, a squad of soldiers drilled their battle spells with one another, one row casting out in unison with white-hot arcs of fire while the other methodically turned the flames aside with an unbroken line of shielding spells.

“Look there,” Jaren murmured. “What’s that up ahead?”

In the center of the village green, beside an unused set of stocks, a fair-haired man was trapped inside a cell; a cell with walls of shimmering air, like living glass. Athaya had not seen its like before, but guessed it to be a type of binding spell. The sheer walls of the man’s prison pulsed in time with his rapid heartbeat and when he dared to touch it the rhythm grew erratic and sparks shot out to sear his flesh. Outside of the boundary, a crowd of children harried the prisoner, shouting insults and tossing overripe tomatoes, delighted that their missiles could pierce the boundary while the man inside could not. A handful of adults joined in as well, although with less fervor, as if they needed to torment the prisoner for fear of reprisal by the Sage’s men and not because they thought he deserved such treatment. One woman, however, cursed him louder than any of the children, her plump face crimson with rage.

“You would have rather seen me dead!” she was shrieking, her face framed by dirty blonde curls. “I finally have the chance to get out of this foul little village and you want me to throw it all away!” She threw a clod of dirt at him, not bothering to pick the dung out of it first, and as he instinctively raised his arm to shield himself, his elbow caught the edge of the boundary. He yelped in pain as a shower of sparks lashed out at his flesh, leaving a series of ugly red welts. The village children squealed with delight at his misfortune.

“These people are lying to you, Hilda,” he said, though his words were countered by a loud chorus of jeers from the adult onlookers. “True, they might actually give you some of the money and lands they promise, but what good is that if you lose your soul to them as well? If you have to use your magic, then why not go to one of the princess’s camps? At least they’ve never tried to overthrow the king.”

“And that’s the damned problem! What good does her royal Highness do us, might I ask? Oh, she’ll show us our spells well enough, but can she stop the Justices from slitting our throats right after? We deserve better and
she
won’t get it for us. Think, Ben! We could have ten times the land we do now. And money, too… and decent food and clothes—”

“Only by stealing it all from someone else,” the prisoner argued back. “Where’s the justice in that?”

Hilda sniffed at the irrelevance of the remark. “Where’s the justice in absolution?”

Drawn by the dispute, one of the Sage’s soldiers strolled lazily toward the prisoner. “If you keep spouting that sort of talk, friend, then the Sage will use that head of yours to decorate the gates of his new manor.”

“What difference would it make?” the man said, staring despondently at the toes of his leather boots. He stole a quick glance at his wife. “He’s taken everything else.”

As the crowd taunted the man with mewling wails of mock pity, Athaya’s ears picked up the underscore of hoofbeats rumbling behind them—and coming closer. A half-dozen men galloped into the green a minute later, a thick cloud of dust rising from the road in their wake. One man she recognized instantly; he could not have been overlooked in a crowd of thousands. With seeming idleness, Athaya let her hood fall across her face; this was neither the time or place for their meeting. The people of Coakley had likely been fed the tales that Mason warned her about, and if they were to discover their princess among them, they might assault her—or worse—for not using her power to tell their futures and say who among them was Lorngeld and who was not.

The Sage of Sare eased his ruddy stallion through the crowd of villagers, the archetypal image of a conquering king. Enemy or no, Athaya conceded that he was a glorious sight to behold; gold glittered at his ears and throat, and he was elegantly clad in emerald-colored silk, his black hair and cape flowing freely behind him. He reined in beside the prisoner, glancing down in mild curiosity.

“What’s the trouble here, Dorrit?”

The soldier stepped forward and offered his lord a sharp salute. “This man was arrested earlier this morning, your Grace. His wife is one of us—you scried her seed last week, if you’ll recall. He was caught trying to persuade her not to join you.”

The Sage grinned at his captive as if amused by the tangled prattle of a child just learning to speak. “He misunderstands me, then, for no one who truly knows my mission could say it is not the will of God.”

Like a tickle in the back of her head, Athaya sensed the thread of power in the Sage’s words—a single strand of silver in a tapestry of black. Like the subtle pressures a wizard employed to entice a man to sleep, the Sage twined a bit of mind-magic into his speech, adding a touch of arcane power to his already persuasive words. “It is time to absolve Caithe of her sins, my friends,” he proclaimed, extending his arms to embrace the whole kingdom. “We shall take back what is rightfully ours—those lands and goods stolen by the Church and her adherents—and then we will take our proper place… first in Caithe and then in the world!”

Procuring the expected cheers, the Sage bowed graciously to his audience, gold adornments catching the sunlight and dazzling the eyes of all. Then he approached the prisoner, stepping through the glasslike boundary with ease. The man backed away, but was soon dangerously close to the shimmering walls of his cell with nowhere else to run. The Sage cupped the prisoner’s head in his palms. The man flinched once as the wizard’s gaze bored into him, but then quickly went limp in the Sage’s grasp and slumped to his knees in the dirt.

After a moment of quiet study, the Sage straightened and slowly backed out of the cell, leaving the now-slumbering man alone in his ensorcelled square of earth. “Your husband does not have the power,” he said to Hilda. “He will never be what you are.” The Sage shook his head in a show of grief as if informing her that the man was dead and not simply barren of magic.

“Tell me, young lady,” he continued, placing one finger underneath the village woman’s chin. “Have you been anointed?”

Hilda blushed crimson at his touch. “No, your Grace. Not yet.”

The Sage smiled broadly in response. “Well, then, this seems a fine day for it. I shall do the honors myself.”

“Y-you, your Grace?” The woman’s mouth opened and closed several times in succession like a beached fish starving for the sea. “Such an honor…”

“All my people are worthy of honor, child. Come,” he said, taking her trembling hand in his, “leave your husband to his miseries. I would have you serve me by learning to use the gifts you have been given. But first you need a proper welcome. Attend us!” he shouted to the onlookers, raising his other arm high. “Summon everyone to the village church!”

After a hasty glance back at her husband, Hilda tossed her curls with a dash of insolence and strode out of the green on the Sage’s arm. Like an impromptu parade, they were quickly trailed by dozens of villagers and soldiers, all following the winding dirt road to the squat little church on the outskirts of the village proper.

Jaren tugged on Athaya’s arm. “Let’s go see what this ‘anointing’ is all about.”

Even as she trailed after him, Athaya craned her neck back to the imprisoned man. He had been quickly forgotten, displaced in the attentions of the villagers by whatever ritual the Sage was about to perform. “I wish I knew how to release him, but I’ve never seen that spell before.”

“His heartbeat is linked to the binding somehow,” Jaren returned quietly. “Breaking him free would probably kill him. Remember what Master Hedric said about trying to unweave the threads of Nicolas’ compulsion?” Resignedly, Jaren urged her forward. “Come. I know you’d like to, but you can’t save everyone in Caithe single-handedly.”

By the time they arrived at the village church, the pews were filled to overflowing with curious and excited spectators. The Sage’s wizards had the privilege of the forward pews, while those without magic were guided to the rear. To avoid being seen among the congregation, Athaya and Jaren concealed themselves with cloaking spells, content to watch the ceremony from the safety of a narrow arched window.

The village woman stood alone before a crudely cut stone altar hastily adorned with sprays of summer flowers and greenery. She picked at her grubby skirt with restless fingers, suddenly shy at the array of attentive eyes upon her. As candidate and congregation both waited restlessly for the rite to begin, Athaya realized that this was the ideal opportunity to discover if her ability to scry the seeds of power was truly gone. Her ethical stance made little difference at this point—Hilda’s future had already been revealed. The outcome of the inquiry would change nothing, but at least Athaya would know in her heart that she did not lie when professing the power had faded from her.

Though physical contact would make the reading clearer, Athaya dared not enter the church; even a cloaking spell was risky in a room full of wizards, one of whom might catch her reflection in a random scrap of glass or curve of silver. Instead, from her place at the window, Athaya cast out probing tendrils of thought, searching the woman’s mind for a pinprick of radiance. If Hilda felt the gentle touch, Athaya hoped that she would merely think it some aspect of the upcoming rite and say nothing.

Through the murky haze of Hilda’s anxiety, Athaya could sense her banked exhilaration, but she also harbored hidden pangs of regret; she knew her husband for a stubborn man and was sure that he would never bow down to the Sage and join his wife in her new future. But aside from these immediate emotions, the rest of Hilda’s mind held only darkened swirls of memory and thought, unbroken by the coruscant seed of unborn magic that the Sage had claimed was there.