The Wizard King (23 page)

He plucked a pastry from the tray and absently popped it into his mouth, taking time to lick the sweet icing from his fingers. “You will be glad to know that your alliance with the king surprised me to no small extent,” he went on, inclining his head to her in tribute. “Not that it will affect the eventual outcome, of course, but at least you can take comfort in knowing that you were able to surprise me. Few people ever do.”

Athaya heard the shuffle of footsteps behind her as the others moved within view of the panel. Durek and Jaren ventured closest, while Lukin, Mobarec, and Parr hung back at a watchful distance, fearful of being tainted by too close a communion with sorcery.

“What do you want of us?” Durek demanded, injecting every scrap of royal indignation he could muster into his words. It was the first time he had ever seen his enemy face to face, and while Athaya knew he was rattled, he managed to hide it fairly well behind a familiar mask of bluster.

The Sage studied him with polite contempt “I want my country back,” he said simply. “And I want its government in the hands of those God has deemed worthy of it.”

Durek flinched; the words stung more fiercely than perhaps the Sage would ever know. But he let the blow glance off him as best he could, and when he spoke again his tone was menacingly formal. “As king of Caithe, I command you to return to Sare at once. You are committing treasonous acts.”

The Sage lifted his brows and smiled broadly, balanced on the brink of laughter. “Of course I am. It is my destiny to do so.”

Durek’s stony facade cracked in the face of his enemy’s glib reply. “Of all the—”

“Now if you will excuse me, I have pressing business to attend to.” He waved the back of his hand at Durek as if to dismiss a bothersome servant. “I have had difficulty persuading the brothers of Saint Adriel that God is
not
going to answer their fervent prayers for deliverance and see me driven out of Caithe. I am sorry to report that the order has far fewer members than it did seven days ago.” The Sage clicked his tongue. “A stubbornly persistent collection of priests.”

“God shall smite you from the earth for this outrage against His anointed servants!” Lukin bellowed from the rear, swollen near to bursting with righteous wrath. His plum-colored cheeks had flushed to the shade of grapes.

The Sage glared at him coldly, raking his eyes over the archbishop’s clerical garb with unveiled contempt. Durek was merely an inconvenient obstacle; Lukin was the true enemy of his people. His eyes narrowed further when he recognized the Saint Adriel’s medal resting against Lukin’s chest. “I could say the same,” he replied evenly. “This is war… a holy war. People die. And you needn‘t be so livid about it,” the Sage added, the slightest hint of a smile crimping his upper lip. “I am, after all, only doing God’s will.”

Lukin recoiled sharply, as if someone had just dashed a cup of wine into his face. Hearing the Sage mouth the very words that he might have chosen to defend his own beliefs reduced the archbishop to flabbergasted silence.

“And now, Princess, I must go. Though it is ever a delight to speak with you, there is nothing further to discuss at the moment… unless,” he appended, shifting a vaguely mischievous gaze to Durek, “his Majesty cares to abdicate now and save his people from my further incursions?”

“Never!” Durek shouted back.

Brandegarth shook his head in mock pity, and his coronet glittered in the tent’s lamplight. “No, I didn’t think you had quite that much sense.” He glanced to Athaya, flashing her a smile of admiration through his disdain. “You Trelanes are a stubborn lot.”

The Sage leaned deeper into his cushions, absently brushing a pastry crumb from his sleeve. “Should you wish to contact me again—to bargain, perhaps?—then you know where to find me. Until I decide to move on, of course. I wonder where I shall go next?” he asked, tapping his chin like a dandy unable to choose which feathered cap to wear to dinner. “There are so many unsuspecting shires to choose from…”

With a taunting chuckle, the Sage touched the rim of the panel and abruptly severed the contact. As if entranced, Athaya stood before the empty window for a full minute before banishing the mists. The Sage had not only taken over Kilfarnan itself, but the camp where hundreds of her followers had made their home. Where were they now? Or more importantly, were there any left?

“That boorish, egotistical, ill-bred son of a—” Durek wheeled around in disgust, abandoning his stream of abuse. “How can he sweep across my shires so quickly?”

“His people have had a long time to prepare for this, Durek,” Athaya reminded him. “They’ve been planning to reclaim Caithe ever since King Faltil drove their ancestors out two hundred years ago.”

“And the timing of the assault is nothing short of masterful,” Jaren added somberly. “The Caithan people are in just the right state of mind to be receptive to the Sage’s magic-laced speeches. They’re confused by new ideas about magic—”

“Your wife’s to blame for
that
,” Lukin snarled, turning a spiteful glare to Athaya.

“—and they’re tired of being persecuted and browbeaten by the Tribunal, willing to join any cause that promises to make it stop and perhaps make them richer in the bargain,” Jaren finished pointedly, settling the rest of the blame squarely on the archbishop’s mantled shoulders.

Durek paced in a tight circle, worriedly scrubbing his sparse beard. “Eriston was a small port town, and Nadiera mostly undefended farmland. But Kilfarnan is a major city… it should never have fallen to an enemy so easily.”

Archbishop Lukin fixed a critical glare on the foot of the dais where Athaya’s erstwhile panel had rested. “The man is as dangerous as he is proud. He must be stopped.”

Athaya arched a brow at him. “At last, your Excellency, it seems we can agree on something.” She stepped past him and moved to her brother’s side. “It might be a good time to reconvene the council,” she advised him. “Perhaps now they will realize that the danger is real—and closer than they think.”

* * * *

Archbishop Lukin watched with profound disapproval as his Majesty departed, Princess Athaya and her sorcerous husband trailing him a short distance behind.

“Fool,” Lukin said bluntly. He folded his arms tight across his chest, eclipsing the gleaming silver orb of his Saint Adriel’s medal. “The king has become as much the Devil’s puppet as his brother.” Belatedly, his gaze swept across the Hall. He was alone with Mobarec and Parr in the cavernous chamber, but that in itself gave the archbishop scant comfort; with wizards in the palace, one was never sure one’s words could be spoken in privacy.

The preceptor scratched at his chin with artful negligence. “His Majesty appears much committed to this alliance.” The remark was benign enough, but Lukin knew that his former mentor shared in his censure of the Lorngeld. He also knew that the preceptor was a master at soliciting other mens’ opinions on delicate matters without ever fully betraying his own; it gave the man an enigmatic aura—and made him difficult to trap when charges of treachery began to fly about.

Lukin, however, was not so discreet as his elder. “Too committed, I think. I fear for his soul.”

“And I for his life,” Captain Parr inserted, his right hand absently curling itself around the leather-cased pommel of his sword. “Can he truly believe that his sister will let him live once she gets what she wants? The king is helping her get rid of the only genuine obstacle between herself and the throne, and he doesn’t even realize it!”

Lukin nodded in grave agreement. “Yes, he no longer sees her for the scheming witch she is. She murdered Kelwyn in cold blood—God rest his soul; why should he believe Athaya will spare
him
? No, the moment the Sage is dead, she will be grasping for the crown like an infant for a shiny bauble—we can be certain of it. Something
must
be done to save his Majesty from the disastrous course he has set himself upon before it is too late… for all of us.”

“Save him,” Mobarec echoed. “But how?”

Lukin’s eyes darkened as he shifted his gaze to the doorway through which the king and his companions had recently passed. “By removing the one who exploits him.”

Mobarec scratched at his chin again, this time more deliberately. The Hall had fallen eerily silent, and each time his nails scraped across the stubble on his face, it sounded like rats skittering amongst the rushes on the floor.

“Removing her could be dangerous.” Lukin noted that the preceptor did not say it was a bad idea, only a risky one. “Best to let her rid us of this Sage first. Like it or no, Jon, she may be the only one who can.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps that is simply what the Devil would have us believe. But think on this,” he went on, leaning in close to the preceptor. The dim light turned his eyes to tiny black beads, like a fox’s. “Should she succeed in crushing the Sage, the people will be in her debt and this loathsome alliance between the Lorngeld and his Majesty will strengthen. If that happens, we may never be able to cut this canker from our midst… or risk far more than we do now if we attempt it.”

Mobarec mutely weighed the archbishop’s argument. “And the Sage?”

“God will send us a solution. We must all have faith.”

Mobarec scowled slightly, less willing than his protégé to trust in divine intervention. “And the king… what of him?”

“What of him?” Lukin echoed, as if that were the least of their present concerns.

Parr eyed the archbishop with bright conspiracy, speaking what the preceptor would not. “You mean to defy him.”

“I obey God before any mortal man, Captain,” Lukin replied, with a piousness that did not suit him. “If that means I must defy my king, then so be it. But let us all remember that the king himself has, in his more rational past, condemned his sister from his own mouth: once to death at Rhodri’s hand and once to a life’s confinement in a convent. Were we to remove the princess permanently, we would not be going entirely against his will, but would instead be doing his will as it existed before her sorcery deluded him into changing it.”

The captain’s eyes glowed with subtle appreciation of Lukin’s truthful—if twisted—logic. “I would gladly be of service, if you have need of it.”

“Such service could place you at grave risk, my friend. I have sworn higher vows—you have not. But,” he added, tapping a finger to his cheek, “I may impose on you to… say, leave a gate or two unlocked of a night…?”

The captain tipped his head.

“The princess,” Mobarec murmured. “You have a plan, then?”

“Not yet,” the archbishop replied, “but it should not take long. The means of her demise needn’t be neat or complex… just permanent. But allow me to handle this, Preceptor. I will not have you involve yourself in this if you yet harbor doubts. Still,” he added, lacing his fingers together in an attitude of entreaty, “it would please me to have your private support, if not your public sanction.”

Lukin did not have to ask the man’s leave—as Archbishop of Delfarham he outranked the preceptor by no small extent—but he knew the solicitation would appease him. Moreover, it would serve him well to have the man speak the damning words before a witness such as Parr, so that he would be more certain to avoid betrayal. Mobarec might have been a mentor to him, but it did not do to let sentiment muddle one’s thinking where treason was concerned.

“Do as you must, my friend,” the preceptor said at last. If he had any further objections to Lukin’s chosen course, he was too wretched and travel-weary to bother raising them. “I will say nothing of it.”

The old man struggled to his feet with Lukin’s swiftly proffered aid. “When…?”

“Soon,” the archbishop replied. “Soon. We have no time to lose. And do not fear that you have done wrong to offer me your blessing,” he added, laying a comforting palm upon the shorter man’s shoulder. His eyes were again filled with shadows. “The Devil has sunk his claws deep into our king, in the guise of Athaya Trelane. It is my solemn duty—to God and to our sovereign both—to extricate him.”

Athaya pushed back the embroidered counterpane and cracked open one eye, squinting against the shaft of sunlight that flowed through a gap in the bedcurtains. Jaren was already up and dressed—apparently for quite some time now—and sat peacefully in the windowseat, sea breezes gently tousling his hair as he picked through a tray of cherries and fresh-baked bread.

She paused for a moment before speaking, thinking it pleasantly strange to have him here in the room of her youth, its elegant furnishings scarred and pitted from countless childhood tantrums that took place years before she knew of his existence. How slight those childhood tribulations seemed now in the light of present-day problems: being forbidden to go riding with her brothers because she’d torn her dress tussling in the dirt with Nicolas, or being sent to her room without supper for blurting out to a lady of the court that she smelled too strongly of lavender. Suddenly, all of the unhappy days she had spent in this chamber sulking over one perceived injustice or another seemed a fair price for the contentment she now enjoyed.

“I didn’t hear you get up,” she said, drawing back the brocade bedcurtain.

Jaren looked up at the sibilant rustle of cloth. “I was trying not to wake you. You spent a lot of time with those corbal crystals before you came to bed last night and I thought you could use the rest.”

Blinking away the last vestiges of sleep, Athaya noticed that Jaren had left off his peasant garb for a dark green doublet over butter-colored shirt and hose; he looked much as he had on the morning of her first magic lessons with Master Hedric—so very long ago, it seemed!—when she had first seen him dress befitting the nobleman he was. Her heart fluttered a bit even now, as if she were a young girl still being courted and not his wife these nine months past.

“I haven’t seen you look so handsome in a long time,” she remarked, playfully echoing his backward compliment from the day before.

Jaren smirked at her. “It belongs to Nicolas. A bit snug in the shoulders,” he added, tugging at one sleeve, “but it’ll do. Hedric let me borrow a few things from the prince’s wardrobe so I wouldn’t look so conspicuous. People around here stare at me enough as it is, as if they expect me to sprout horns in my head the minute they turn away. Here,” he went on, bringing her the tray of bread and berries. Athaya ate a cherry eagerly and Jaren deftly kissed away the sticky red juice that trickled down her chin.