The Wizard King (18 page)

The Sage drank half his wine in one gulp, rolling it around his tongue before swallowing. “What you’re doing to your own people is no less unconscionable, your Highness. You rob them of their God-given rights. I had to get your attention somehow.”

Athaya scowled at him. “And so you did. But you needn’t torment him any longer. Please,” she said, close to choking on the entreaty, “free my brother from your compulsion spell. He is no threat to you.”

“No,” the Sage granted with a shrug. “He never was. But he was spying on me, Princess, and for that he must be punished. Prince Nicolas shall stay as he is until I rule here—or until I die. And I assure you that I have no intention of dying until I have served as Caithe’s king for many fruitful years.” The Sage plucked a pastry from the tray. “You seem to forget that I
did
give you a chance to save him,” he pointed out, absently flaking off a bit of burned batter from his cake. “Had you joined me when I asked you to, your precious brother would be at your side right now.”

“But for how long?” Jaren challenged, increasingly nettled by the Sage’s offhanded manner. “To get what you want, you’ll have to murder her entire family eventually.”

“Not necessarily. As God’s chosen servant, it is my duty to be merciful when I can.” His gaze drifted back to Athaya. “You do have certain charms, Princess,” he remarked, with what Athaya deemed a distasteful degree of intimacy. “You might be able to persuade me to simply exile the royal family under the condition that they neither attempt to return nor gather an army to make war on me.”

“Exile me if you like, your Grace, but I will never leave Caithe.”

The Sage drained off the rest of his wine and exchanged his empty cup for the one Athaya had spurned. “
You
wouldn’t have to. As Dameronne said in his prophecy, you are doubly blessed—the carrier of royal blood and divine power. You would have the most exalted of places at my court.” His eyes grew shrewd and vaguely unkind. “Accepted and admired, as, I gather, you never were under your father’s rule. And still are not, under your brother’s.”

The truth stung deep, as he knew it would. In the face of all her accomplishments, the old hurts of her youth still thrived beneath the surface of her soul—the lingering shame of being an unworthy member of her family. As a girl, her shame had been refreshed each day by Dagara’s shrewish words, Durek’s cool detachment, and Kelwyn’s soul-deep disappointment, blaming her for her mother’s death and betrayed when she did not grow up to be like his beloved Chandice in every way to somehow replace what she had stolen in the fatal act of being born.

“You cannot buy me, your Grace.” Athaya had to force the words out, but they came, and her voice did not break.

“I do not wish to,” the Sage replied simply. “What you fail to understand, your Highness, is that I am only acting in accordance with the divine order of things.”

To illustrate his words, he stepped back and swept his right hand out in a wide arc, conjuring an illusion of a man astride a horse. Not just any man, however, but Brandegarth himself, clad as he was today but wearing a golden crown. Athaya hated to admit how masterful the apparition was; each stitch of the ghost’s raiment matched the living Sage’s own and the ruddy stallion swished its tail to chase off flies as insubstantial as the beast itself.

“God made mankind lord over the beasts, did He not?”

Without awaiting her reply, he turned his wrist again; the image shifted and became that of a man and woman. It was the Sage and herself, Athaya realized as the image took shape, though he had done the courtesy of garbing her in a rather low-cut gown of indigo silk rather than the faded brown kirtle she wore today. Athaya was repulsed, however, to see that her insubstantial twin was dutifully kneeling at the Sage’s feet.

“And he made man lord over woman, did He not?”

Athaya looked away indifferently. “Man likes to think so,” she said, her voice laden with sarcasm.

The Sage favored Jaren with a distant smile. “You have married quite a firebrand, sir.” He dispelled the second illusion as well and then created his most masterful yet; a likeness of himself seated on a golden throne, garbed in stately purple robes and surrounded by dozens of—no, Athaya couldn’t possibly call them subjects. They were worshipers, eyes gleaming with rapture at the dazzling sight of their lord.

“And lastly, God made the Lorngeld lord over all, to govern for Him on earth as He does in heaven.”

The Sage studied his creation with unabashed approval, admiring both its craftsmanship as well as its symbolism. Then, after paying silent homage to his majestic reflection, he and his phantom both turned to face Athaya, all four of the sea-green eyes brimming with visions of apocalypse.

“This has gone far beyond you and your paltry crusade, Athaya Trelane,” the living Sage told her. “Your coming was merely the precursor to mine. A new order is being established that will change the course of history. You were the spark to that transformation, Princess of Caithe, but I…” He glanced to his twin, smiling indistinctly as both Sages nodded their respect to one another, and then turned back. “I am the flame.”

Athaya took a step back from that sane yet lunatic gaze. Drianna was right—the sealing spell had altered him markedly. It had not only given him great power, but bestowed on him an even greater opinion of his role and worth. Not two years ago, Rhodri’s ambition had nearly killed herself and Jaren both, as well as being the sole cause of her father’s spiral into madness. Were the Sage to succeed in his own aspirations, he could make that tragedy seem trifling by comparison—a minor footnote in the glittering history of the Lorngeld’s rise to power.

“Believe what you will, your Grace,” Athaya said at last, weaving together the threads of her composure before they could unravel any further, “but I implore you to do so in your own land. Please, leave Caithe to unfold her own future.”

The Sage closed his eyes in quiet exasperation, dismayed that she was so completely blind to the visions he painted so colorfully before her. He banished the illusion with a peevish wave of his hand. “We have had that argument before and I am weary of it. Caithe
is
my land. And would be still, had not King Faltil driven my ancestors from it. But I have no more time to debate history and theology with you—do that with your Reykan friends. Now is the time for action. To reclaim what was once ours. And I am having such a great deal of success doing that so far,” he pointed out, almost flippantly, “that I see absolutely no reason to stop.”

“There will be nothing left of Caithe for the victor of such a war.”

“If you persist in defying me that may well occur. As I see it, there is only one solution to such an unpleasant outcome. The Lorngeld shall rule Caithe. You can be a part of that, your Highness—your due, as a wizard and a Trelane. Or you can fight me until you are defeated and earn nothing more than a scant reference in a history book as one who tried and failed.”

Athaya scried deep into the Sage’s unyielding eyes. There was no compromise in this man; what had ever possessed her to think she could reason with him? Why had she believed she could turn him from his course? Better to walk to the river and command the waters to reverse their flow, for all the good it would do.

“Come, Athaya,” Jaren whispered in her ear. “We can’t do anything more here.”

Without protest from the Sage, Jaren took her arm and led Athaya toward the garden gate where Couric waited to escort them out of the manor. Jaren stole one backward glance; the Sage had made no move to follow them.

“But be advised, Athaya Trelane,” the Sage added ominously as she and Jaren reached the wrought-iron gate, “the next time we meet, I may not let you go so easily.”

An icy chill snaked down her back and made her shudder. He meant it; Athaya was certain of that.

Couric escorted them back to the gatehouse, murmured a few courtly words of farewell, and sent them on their way. Athaya was surprised at being allowed to walk away from the manor unhindered, but it was only further proof that the Sage did not regard her as a threat—not here, in his stolen domain. Absurd as it was, the snub galled her. Nonetheless, she and Jaren did not stop to rest until they were several miles east of the manor, assured that their easy departure wasn’t instead a carefully crafted trap.

“There are so many of them, Jaren,” she said later, retreating into the generous shade of a willow tree at the side of the road. She sank down in the grass rubbing at her eyes; the day’s stress had given her a vicious headache and each heartbeat pumped a stream of fresh pain throughout her skull. “Ranulf was right. The Sage’s people don’t simply outnumber us; they’re better trained
and
better organized. My people are scattered all over Caithe, and most of them are novices—the most experienced wizards we have only came into their power a year or so ago. We may have supporters,” she finished sullenly, “but it’s not the same thing as an army.”

Jaren rummaged in his satchel for some cheese with which they could console themselves and divided a small round between them. “Then we’ll have to turn it into an army. Frankly, it looks like the only option we’ve got.”

Athaya chewed thoughtfully on her cheese. She couldn’t believe she was actually considering the idea that had winged its way into her brain and nested there, but the more she pondered it, the more it seemed to be the only viable solution.

Most startling of all, she thought it just might work.

“No. There
is
one other option left… although I never dreamed I’d have to choose it.”

Jaren eyed her critically. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

Suddenly, Athaya’s headache was all but forgotten amidst her growing excitement. “If you need to fight an enemy and don’t have an army of your own, what do you do?”

“Hire one, I suppose,” Jaren replied dubiously. “But we don’t have the money for—”

“Or what else?” she prodded, eyes glittering.

He paused, gradually beginning to see where she was leading him. “Or… you form an alliance with somebody who’s already got one.”

“Exactly!”

Jaren leaned against the massive willow trunk, dispirited. “Not so fast, Athaya. Osfonin may be willing to shelter runaway Trelanes on occasion, but I don’t think he’ll be so quick to offer Reykan troops. Not even to you. He can’t abide Durek, and—”

“I wasn’t thinking of Osfonin.”

Suddenly bursting with energy, Athaya jumped to her feet and brushed the dusty grass from her skirt. “We’ll need to hire a coach tomorrow,” she said, rapidly counting the number of coins in her purse. Then she looked to the east, eyes blazing with purpose. “Where we’re going next, it will serve us to arrive in style.”

The coach lurched to the right as it rolled over a dip in the cobbled road that led through the center of Delfarham to the gates of the royal palace. After traveling by translocation to the nearby village of Feckham, Athaya and Jaren had walked to the city’s outskirts and hired the coach to carry them into the heart of Caithe’s capital. The driver studied them cynically at first, doubtful that a pair of ragged commoners—probably laborers in the nearby salt mines—would have the coin it took to hire him, and gruffly demanded payment in advance. The silver coins that Athaya folded into his palm had appeased him readily enough, as had her promise to add an extra coin if he got them to the castle by noon. On a fine day such as this, she knew that Durek might well finish his business early and spend the afternoon sailing the bay on his pleasure barge.

Beside her, Jaren tapped his feet on the floorboards in erratic rhythm. He peeked through the window curtains with uneasy regularity, as if afraid they were being followed.

“You’re nervous,” Athaya remarked, feeling far from calm herself.

“I have a right to be,” he murmured, letting the curtains fall back into place. “This is your home, Athaya. You grew up here. I’ve only been to Delfar Castle three times in my life, and on two of those occasions I got myself tossed into the dungeons. Forgive me if I’m a bit skeptical of getting a warm welcome.”

Athaya took his hand and squeezed it; his palm was as moist as hers. “Ah, but back then you weren’t a member of the family.”

Jaren arched a blond eyebrow at her. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

The coach rolled to a stop a few yards from the portcullis at the castle’s south gate. A few heartbeats later, Athaya heard the approaching crunch of guardsman’s boots on gravel.

“Do you really think this will work?” Jaren whispered.

“It has to,” she replied with a shake of her head, unwilling to consider any other possibility. “Durek may be stubborn and narrow-minded about a lot of things, but he’s not stupid. If he refuses me, then neither one of us has much chance of defeating the Sage.” She regarded Jaren wryly. “And don’t you think it’s a bit late to be asking?”

Athaya swallowed her own misgivings—did she truly know what she was doing?—and drew back the curtains to reveal herself to the gatehouse guard. She recognized the uniformed man that stepped up to question them: it was Lieutenant Berns, Captain Parr’s first-in-command.

“State your busi—”

His routine query trailed off into stunned silence.

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” Athaya replied cordially, as if her unannounced visit was the most natural thing in the world. “I’ve come to see the king.”

Lieutenant Berns backed away slowly, staring at her as if she were King Kelwyn come back from the dead. His face paled, white as a full moon above his crimson surcoat. “C-captain?” he called out unsteadily, his voice little more than a squeak. “Captain Parr!”

His disgruntled superior stepped out of the cool shelter of the gatehouse and squinted against the midday sun. “What the devil is—”

Like his lieutenant before him, Captain Parr never finished his sentence. “Stand back!” he shouted suddenly, pushing Berns back toward the gatehouse. “Don’t let her touch you. This has to be some sort of trick…”

As he began to fumble with the scabbard at his belt, Athaya withdrew into herself, rapidly lapsing into the quiescent preparedness required to fend off the unwelcome advances of a corbal crystal. She gripped Jaren’s arm, silently warning him to brace himself as best he could; perhaps if the crystal was not too large—and few guardsmen could afford weapons with any but the smallest stones embedded in them—he would suffer through only a little pain until they were admitted inside.