The Wizard King (22 page)

Nicolas crept forward reluctantly, his head slightly bowed like a pup fearful of being kicked. He glanced first to Durek, then to Athaya, and then frowned deeply. He seemed to remember that his brother and sister disliked one another—though he was not entirely sure why that was so—and sensed that their being in the same room together, much less being on reasonably good terms, was quite extraordinary.

Athaya scrutinized him closely. Signs of his hidden self were there, but they remained nothing but enticing glimpses, peeking out from behind the Sage’s spell like a random thread of sunlight on an overcast afternoon. Thanks to Hedric’s tireless attentions, much of Nicolas’ childlike manner had been successfully subdued, but he was yet a boy dressed up in prince’s clothes, stilted and nervous as a new squire on the first day at his duties, terrified unto death of bungling before his lord.

“Master Hedric told me what I did and I am truly sorry,” he began, eyes averted. The words sounded rehearsed, as Athaya knew they must be, but they also rang sincere. “I will gladly accept any punishment you think I deserve.”

Durek’s face was pinched with bewildered pity as he listened to his brother’s brief speech of submission, perhaps grasping the true scope of Nicolas’ affliction for the first time. Perhaps realizing what atrocities his Sarian enemies were capable of, and that if Nicolas could succumb to them so easily, then so could he.

“I think the spell that binds you is punishment enough,” Durek murmured uneasily. The archbishop made a disapproving grunting noise, but his Majesty chose to ignore it. “And it wasn’t exactly your fault if magic forced you to it. However, while you’re here,” he added more stiffly, as if to make amends for the uncharacteristic show of mercy, “you are to stay confined to your rooms unless I give my express permission. Do you understand?”

Nicolas offered an obedient nod, then waited to hear the remainder of his sentence. Blue eyes gradually widened as he realized that Durek wasn’t going to say anything else. No doubt Master Hedric had prepared him for the worst, warning him that imprisonment could be a likely outcome.

“That’s all of it,” Durek told him, a slight edge of chagrin to his tone. Then, with a resigned sigh, he added, “I know I’ve got every reason to lock you up in a dark room somewhere, but I have every reason to lock Athaya up, too, and… well, as you can see, I’m letting her run roughshod all over my palace.” Durek snorted quietly and looked away, as if to dispel any notion that he had anything whatsoever to do with their newfound alliance and sustain the facade that he was simply an innocent man caught up in events far beyond his meager control

Having dispensed with Nicolas, Durek turned his attention to the earl. “And you, sir? You look familiar to me, but…?”

“The earl of Belmarre, sire,” the gentleman replied with a bow. “It has been many years since I’ve been at court.” The earl framed his next words cautiously. “The prince has been at my estate these last months, in the care of my steward. I hope you will forgive my role in keeping him hidden from you.”

“I have Athaya to thank for that, not you,” Durek replied dryly. He glanced toward the antechamber. “Is your steward with you? He deserves my thanks for his service, unsolicited as it was.”

The earl shifted his weight from one booted foot to the other. “No, sire. His… duties kept him at Belmarre.” A quick glance to Athaya proved that this was only a fraction of the truth. More likely, Adam did not wish to see his king at all, fearful that he would fail to keep a civil tongue in the presence of the man who had signed his son’s death warrant.

“I have come to offer whatever help I can,” the earl went on. “My companions have told me of the Sage of Sare and of the threat he poses to us all. Trust that Belmarre will stand with you against him.”

Durek’s smile was unexpectedly sincere. “I’m glad to hear it. My council is reluctant to believe Athaya’s claim that the lords of Caithe will lend their aid now, when they would not do so before.”

“Doing so before would have been treason,” the earl pointed out. “Now we can serve you both and betray no one.”

Lukin turned his back to them in subdued disgust and glided toward the window like a retreating fog. “And may God help us all.”

Instead of ignoring the archbishop’s invective as the rest of them did, Master Hedric approached the black-clad clergyman, unwilling to let the remark go unchallenged. “You do not wish our assistance? You wish to fight the Sarian wizards alone?”

Lukin whirled on him in a fit of frustrated rage, as maddened by the words as by the very existence of the man who asked them. “I wish that the
lot
of you would go back to hell where you came from!”

“Jon!” Durek barked, resorting to the same tone he employed when scolding young Mailen for touching something he ought not. “Think what you will, but this man is a guest here—”

“Oh, it’s all right,” Hedric said, lifting a blue-veined hand dismissively. “I’ve run into this sort of thing before.” He turned back to Lukin with a benign half smile and his calm grace made the archbishop look even more vindictive than usual by comparison. “You despise me already,” Hedric observed, “and yet we have never even met.”

“I despise the taint that you carry and the fact that you take so much pride in it.”

Hedric’s half smile vanished. “Hatred is itself a taint, your Excellency. A worse one than simple magic could ever be.” He spread out his hands, palms up. “We are both God’s servants, each in our own way.”

The archbishop’s nostrils flared like a heated stallion’s and his cheeks assumed the striking plum-colored hue that had graced them so often of late. “How
dare
you imply such a thing! I have nothing at all in common with you!”

Hedric studied him in silence, looking past the priest’s unforgiving eyes and gritted teeth, deep into the well of his soul. “No,” he said at last, his voice carrying the finality of a funeral bell. “I don’t suppose you do.”

The air was electric as Athaya hastily moved to Hedric’s side. “Why don’t I show you to Nicolas’ room?” she suggested, pressing the cherrywood staff back into his hand. She was quite certain that a theological debate between the Archbishop of Delfarham and the High Wizard of Reyka would be most unproductive.

“And I shall have my steward find you suitable quarters as well, sir,” Durek said to the earl, equally desirous of averting a quarrel. “This way.”

They had barely reached the threshold when a uniformed guardsman hastened into the chamber and wiped a ragged salute across his forehead. “Preceptor Mobarec has just arrived at the south gate, your Majesty. He begs immediate audience.”

“Mobarec?” Durek’s brows furrowed worriedly at Archbishop Lukin; the news must be dire indeed to bring the leader of Caithe’s most militant priesthood to his doorstep unannounced. “What brings him here from Kilfarnan?”

The guardsman swallowed audibly. “Sire,” he broke in, his voice wavering slightly, “Kilfarnan is taken.”

* * * *

Preceptor Mobarec, spiritual head of the Order of Saint Adriel, was hunched over a mug of cool ale in the Great Hall, looking far older than his sixty-five years in the wake of his breakneck flight from the western city of Kilfarnan. His once-fine traveling cloak was mud-spattered and frayed, and knotted hands shook wildly, splashing drops of ale on the front of his robe whenever he tried to quench his thirst. Athaya knew little about the man other than he had educated Jon Lukin years before, but that told her as much about Mobarec and his sentiments toward the Lorngeld as she ever cared to know.

With Hedric and Nicolas secure in the prince’s chambers and the earl of Belmarre safely in the care of his Majesty’s steward, Durek, Archbishop Lukin, Athaya, and Jaren gathered around the preceptor to hear his tale. Captain Parr lurked in one corner like a spy, unwilling to let either Athaya or Jaren venture too far from his hawkish gaze. Athaya could not fail to notice how the preceptor avoided looking at her and Jaren as he spoke, as uncomfortable with this new alliance as Lukin was, if not as willing to voice his opinion of it. He slid to the farthest edge of the bench, keeping himself as far from the royal family’s most nefarious member as propriety would allow.

“It was as if all the powers of hell had been unleashed upon us,” he declared, eyes glazed with memory. “Fire rained from the sky in great, orange sheets; gaping pits opened in the earth to swallow us up; winged creatures swooped down on us, belching smoke and snapping huge rows of teeth…” Mobarec shook his head in awesome dismay. “These wizards must truly be the Devil’s Children to have command of such things.”

“Most of what you saw was probably illusion,” Athaya said, although she doubted such a fact would ease the preceptor’s mind. “Or more likely, the Sage was using a careful mixture of illusion and reality to keep you constantly guessing if what you were seeing was real or not.”

“It hardly matters now, does it?” Lukin said acidly, barely deigning to look at her. “The city is lost.”

“And our chapterhouse with it,” Mobarec added sadly, expelling a lingering sigh. “There was little anyone could do to fight them. Hundreds of God’s faithful flocked to the cathedral for succor only to be caged like hapless pigeons, forced to join the Sage’s men or die. Those that refused to join were killed… right there in the sight of God Himself! And the invaders were most brutal to the Adrielites—especially those that had served as Justices of the Tribunal. I… cannot even speak of what was done to them.” Mobarec squeezed his eyes closed, choking back a flood of rage and grief. “Had the mayor not surrendered the city, these Sarian wizards surely would have razed it.”

“Don’t you have people there?” Durek asked Athaya, his voice carrying more than a hint of accusation. “Why didn’t they do anything to stop this?”

“They were probably taken by surprise as much as anyone else. And besides, Mason DePere may be a fine magician but he’s no battlefield commander—neither am I, for that matter. My people are students, Durek, not warriors.”

Durek threw up his hands in exasperation. “Why on earth didn’t you teach them how to
fight
?”

“I taught them to defend themselves, not to go out and kill people,” she shot back. “If I
had
trained them for combat, then
you
would have accused me of trying to steal your throne!”

“Arguing about it isn’t going to help,” Jaren said, well aware that a quarrel between the two of them could go on all afternoon if not checked quickly—an unneeded threat to their too-fragile alliance. “We have to find out what’s happening in Kilfarnan. Maybe we can send help.”

The preceptor assessed Jaren silently for a moment, surprised that a wizard would suggest anything so sensible. Still, the suggestion was in vain. “I fled the city nearly a week ago. I imagine it’s far too late for that now.”

“Why don’t you just spy on them all with that cursed little globe of yours?” Lukin said caustically. “Isn’t that how you people find out everything you want to know?”

Athaya pretended not to notice the archbishop’s baiting tone. “A fine idea,” she replied, deftly turning the gibe against him by taking the advice. “But perhaps I’ll open a panel instead; that way we’ll all be able to see.” She got up from the table and positioned herself at the foot of the dais. “I’ll try to reach Mason. His camp is tightly shielded—it might have escaped the attack.”

She opened the small purse tied to her girdle and fished out the proper ward key; a slice of blue agate flecked with silver runes. Extending her arms to the side, she murmured the words of invocation. White mist flowed quickly from her fingertips at her urgent command, forming a rectangular window to another part of the world.

Mobarec gasped in horror and jerked back, narrowly avoiding spilling the dregs of his ale into his Majesty’s lap. “Sire, are you going to
allow
this?”

“Do you have a better idea?” Durek looked only slightly less uneasy than the preceptor—not since Rhodri’s day had there been such a blatant display of sorcery within these walls—but he also knew that magic was the fastest way of learning what was happening in his western shires. Discovering the plight of his people was his first concern; he could ill afford to argue over methods.

“Mason?” Athaya called into the swirling mists as if seeking a lost child that had strayed too far from her side. “Mason, are you there?” She waited impatiently, hearing nothing but resonant silence. “Is anyone there? Anyone at all?”

Athaya waited for what seemed an eternity, gazing into the impassive haze. She tried not to think about what the lack of response might mean—that there was no one alive to answer her call—but then the window flashed with blinding whiteness as the link was forged, her summons answered.

And when the afterglow of black spots faded from her sight, Athaya once again found herself facing the Sage of Sare.

Brandegarth was resplendent in white silk, the shimmering fabric all but glowing against deeply tanned skin. Gold winked at his ears and throat, and a thin emerald-studded coronet circled his brow. He sat on a wealth of cushions inside a well-appointed tent, absently perusing a tray of tarts and cheeses resting at his feet. Athaya almost did not recognize the woman who had set it there before moving out of the panel’s range; it was Hilda of Coakley, bathed and scented and draped in costly silks, lifted out of impoverished anonymity as an example of what the Sage promised to do for all those who followed him.

“Good evening, Princess. How kind of you to call upon me again so soon.” His smiled stank of arrogance. “But then, it wasn’t me you were expecting to reach, was it?”

Athaya’s limbs began to tremble against her will and she tried to still them so as not to betray her shock. “What have you done with Dom DePere?” she demanded. “Where is he?”

The Sage glanced to one side, considering. “I really don’t know. Alive, I imagine. I haven’t heard otherwise… yet.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on broad thighs. “His people put up a decent fight, though—for relatively untrained wizards. Unfortunately, I’ve had to contain most of them. They are mulishly loyal to you and interfere with my purposes here.”