The Wizard King (25 page)

“After what I have seen, sire,” Mason said softly, meeting the king’s gaze, “know that the Sage would dare anything.”

Athaya spat out a uniquely vulgar curse learned from Ranulf. “If the council had simply acted on my proposal to station a few hundred wizards in the central shires, we might have been able to call on reinforcements before the entire city fell.”

“It’s too late to worry about that now,” Jaren replied. “The question now is what do we do next?”

Durek made a disgruntled grumbling noise in the back of his throat. “Next? We’ve barely had the chance to do anything at all yet. It’s obviously too late to send a force to Kilfarnan or expect much help from your people there. All we can do now is figure out where the Sage is likely to strike next and prepare for it.”

“For what it’s worth,” Mason offered, “several of my people heard rumors that the Sage’s next target was Kaiburn—and the forest camp, of course,” he added, stealing a disquieted glance at Athaya. “It’s little more than hearsay, but it may be the only lead we’ve got.”

Durek scraped his fingers over his beard as he mulled the dom’s news. “It makes sense. He’ll probably try to keep your people contained as much as he can. And I think it’s more than hearsay,” he added, turning to Athaya. “You weren’t awake yet when it arrived, but I received a letter from Belmarre’s steward this morning. Adam Gray—” He broke off abruptly, realizing only at that moment why Athaya had chosen Belmarre as a hiding place for Nicolas. “Graylen,” he finished, swiftly gathering up the scattered scraps of his composure. “He says that several small groups of men have been seen roaming the countryside east of Halsey. He thinks they may be scouting parties.”

“And Kaiburn is only two days’ journey from Halsey,” Athaya murmured in reply. “They could be planning to circle around and attack from the south.”

Durek pondered the matter in intense silence for a while, then whirled around with a decisive flip of his cloak. “I shall leave for Kaiburn tomorrow. I will speak to the people and tell them to ready themselves. And I will pledge the bulk of my army to the city’s defense… Anders!” he shouted at the door, the command instantly producing a crimson-clad sentry. “Summon my messengers. Tell them they are to be ready to leave by sundown. And send for the lord chancellor.”

“Shouldn’t you stay here?” Athaya asked, once the guardsman had hastened away to carry out his duty. “Going to Kaiburn yourself might be dangerous—”

“No. I must show myself to them… assure them that they have my protection. I also think…” He balked, glancing to Athaya like a child forced to make an apology to his elders. His hands anxiously worked at the folds of his cloak, alternately rumpling the fabric and then smoothing it out again. “I think I should speak to your people as well and persuade them to do their best to defend the city. Perhaps if they are prepared, as those in Kilfarnan were not, we stand a better chance. I doubt they’ll trust me overmuch, but perhaps… if you came with me…?” He let the query trail off into uneasy silence. Durek desperately needed her presence to sway them to obedience, but it galled him to admit it.

Athaya knew there were other reasons for his discomfort, but was sure he would not speak of them. The last time he addressed the people of Kaiburn, it was to force her into a public recantation and burn Jaren to death as an example of what happens to those who defy the king’s law. She caught him glance uneasily to Jaren, debating whether to ask pardon for his past brutality, but pride won out for the moment and he chose to say nothing.

“Yes,” she answered him at last, “being seen together will help prove to the people both in the city and the camp that our alliance is real and not some sort of elaborate hoax. But don’t call them my people, Durek,” she chided gently. “They’re your subjects.”

Durek’s expression was unreadable. True, they were his subjects, but even Athaya knew that the Lorngeld were subjects that their sovereign had no real power to rule should they not wish to obey him.

“Shall I go with you?” Mason asked.

“There’s no need,” Athaya assured him, knowing he needed nothing so much as a few days of peace. “You can be more useful to us here; perhaps you and Master Hedric can see to the castle’s defense if there’s any trouble from the Sarians.”

“It’s not a question of ‘if’ at this point,” Mason said, his fatigue making him dismal. He turned his eyes to the window as if, even now, he could see Delfarham burning. “It’s only a matter of ‘when.’

* * * *

Athaya did not reach her bed until well after midnight. It had been no trivial task to persuade the council that his Majesty should travel anywhere at all in his sister’s company, much less to the heart of her wizards’ camp. What if the Sage’s army was closer to Kaiburn than anyone knew? they bleated. What if the bands of men Adam Graylen had seen were only meant to lure him there, to be killed on sight the moment he arrived? Only Durek’s eventual eruption of ill temper, heavily spiced with curses, had convinced them to grant the journey their sanction, though Athaya clearly sensed that more than one of Durek’s councillors did not expect to see his king survive this bit of folly.

Shivering, Athaya woke in the still hours before dawn to find the brocade bedcurtains slightly pulled back. A tendril of chill night air snaked through the breach to tingle bare flesh. The pale glow of an oil lamp drew her eye to the windowseat, where Jaren sat cloaked in a heavy fur wrap, squinting at a sheet of parchment by the lamp’s wan light.

“Jaren?”

The paper crackled softly in his hands. “Shh, go back to sleep. I thought I’d read for a while… maybe tidy up what we wrote for the journal this morning.”

Athaya frowned. “You haven’t gotten a decent night’s sleep since we’ve been here.”

“Can you blame me? In case you haven’t noticed, we’re not exactly well-loved in this place. It’s like trying to doze off in a wolf’s den.”

Athaya extended her hand; the feathery hair on her forearms bristled in the cool air. “Come back to bed. My feet are cold.”

“I know,” he said dryly, “that’s the other reason I got up.”

Athaya dipped her head, allowing a lock of black hair to fall seductively over one shoulder. “Then why not come back and try to warm them for me?”

Jaren’s eyes skimmed the curve of her shoulder and the rise of one breast, limned with golden lamplight and peeking out from beneath the coverlets like a crescent moon from a cloudbank. Weighing the relative merits of his options, he soon abandoned the parchment on the windowsill. “Yes, your Highness,” he said, smiling as he came to her. He set the oil lamp on the bedstand and slid under the quilted coverlets, out of the brisk night air. Athaya moaned quietly as she sank into the mattress beneath his weight, content as she’d ever been inside these four walls.

Then Jaren pulled away, abruptly breaking off what had promised to be a long and intoxicating kiss. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Athaya murmured dreamily, drawing him back. “Probably just Drianna laying a fire in the other room.”

“Isn’t it a little early for that?”

She brushed his throat with her lips, slowly working her way to his mouth. “Don’t be so suspicious.”

“Athaya, there’s more than one person in this castle who would like nothing more than to have us murdered in our beds. I can’t help but be suspicious.” Despite her groan of protest, he rolled out of bed and crept to the doorway, peering into the outer chamber.

Where does the servant’s door lead to?
he sent urgently, shunning spoken words for the safety of silence.

Athaya stiffened; Jaren was rarely so cautious without good cause.
Past Drianna’s room and down to the courtyard at the base of the tower.

Jaren lurched back from the door, snatching up his fur wrap and throwing her a dressing gown draped across the foot of the bed.
Quick—get up and hide yourself Someone’s coming.

Drianna?

Jaren snapped his head to one side.
Not unless she’s grown a beard since dinnertime.

In breathless silence, Athaya fought her way into the gown and retreated to the far corner of the chamber. She called her cloaking spell to shield her from sight, and Jaren ducked beneath it as well, tightly clasping her hand when he joined her there seconds later.

Mason used a decoy with some substance to it
, he sent,
but as I don’t have a mirror, a simple illusion will have to do.
In the space of three heartbeats, Athaya saw an image of herself and Jaren take shape upon the feather bed. The phantoms slept peacefully in one another’s arms, intangible legs entwined in blankets and incorporeal faces glowing golden by the light of Jaren’s lamp.

The ruse was finished only seconds before the intruder padded cautiously to the bedside, drawing up sharply at an unexpected squeak from one of his boots. The illusion was hastily crafted, but in the dim lamplight it would have taken a keen eye to notice that the features were not quite true; Athaya’s cheekbones were a shade too sharp and Jaren’s eyes spaced a bit too far apart. And had the intruder looked closely enough, he would have noticed that the slumbering figures’ chests did not rise and fall with breathing, nor did their weight make the slightest indentation in the mattress.

The hooded figure crept closer, careful to keep his boots silent. He gave a cautious glance to the lamp, looked to the sleeping wizards, and after a moment’s pause, concluded that the feeble light did not disturb their rest, whereas dousing it might do so. He passed by Jaren’s phantom presence and circled to the other side of the bed, closer to Athaya. As he rounded the foot of the bed, he came perilously close to his true victims, unseen not an arm’s length away; both Athaya and Jaren took care not to make the slightest sound so as not to betray their presence until the time was right.

He’s got a corbal with him
, Athaya sent, conscious of the irritating itch beginning to form behind her eyes.
More than one, I think. They’re covered, but I can sense them.

Jaren’s counsel was composed, yet urgent.
Then get ready to fight them—now; while you have time.
Then, after a moment’s thought, he added:
But if he has corbals, why isn’t he using them?

Athaya lifted one shoulder in a shrug.
Maybe he knows I can repel their power. The whole court knows that by now, after what happened at the gates when we arrived. He must have brought the crystals to use as a last resort. They may not hurt me, but they’d keep me from casting spells to defend myself.

Jaren clutched a fist around impotent air, wishing he had thought to grab a knife as well as his fur wrap.
And they’d keep me from doing anything at all.

Anything magical
, Athaya reminded him.
Here’s your chance to find out how well you can fight without the luxury
of spells.
She touched a finger to his forehead and soundlessly mouthed the words of the spell; the next instant, Jaren was wrinkling his nose at the stuffed-up sensation that accompanied the seal, his powers corked inside of him like fine Evarshot wine.
Now we’ll be prepared no matter what he does.

In the little time that remained, Athaya steeled herself against the intruder’s still-hidden crystals, taking command of her thoughts and shaping them into readiness should the need to fight arise. She called on the Succession of Circles to lull herself into familiar self-control, her mind responding to the regimen like a highly trained gelding to the slightest tug on his master’s reins.
Credony, lord of the first Circle, twenty-six years; Sidra, lord of the second, eleven years…
She envisioned a crystal in her mind’s eye, a dazzling miniature landscape of purple plains and peaks, and envisioned as well the corbal’s heart—the source of its power, from which the deceitful messages of pain would come.

The hooded man’s shadow danced on the wall behind him as he worked the stopper from a slender vial and spattered bloodred liquid over a gleaming silver blade—a peasant’s hunting knife, used to murder beasts. Then bending over the princess’ phantom form, he swept the blade down and across her undefended throat with one brutal stroke. But where the blade should have sliced through tender flesh, it bit instead deep into the pillow, leaving an ugly, crimson gash in the white casing and sending a thin fountain of feathers gushing upward.

The man gasped and stumbled back, the tip of the knife shaking wildly in his startled grasp. Before he could recover his wits, Athaya eased out of her private mental sanctuary enough to conjure a small witchlight that bathed the room in a dull, reddish glow. The man started at the sudden ball of fire that bloomed above his head and started yet again when Athaya dispersed the cloaking spell that shielded her and Jaren from sight. The illusory figures in the bed faded into nothingness like smoke cleared off by the breeze, and the assassin, realizing the deception, backed away like a cornered dog, baring teeth.

“You should be flattered, Athaya,” Jaren remarked steadily. His eyes never left the blade in the intruder’s hand, the steel still smeared with poison. “He went for you first.”

Malcon, lord of the third Circle, seven years….
With the part of her mind not busily priming itself for battle, Athaya considered that she could simply scream; could simply raise an alarm and call the guard. But the knowledge that someone was daring enough to attempt her murder here, not fifty yards from his Majesty’s own apartments, caused her to question whether she would be any safer with Durek’s guardsmen at her side. Durek she trusted, but she could not say the same for his many servants; in fact, it was likely one of the guardsmen who had allowed this man access to her apartment. Perhaps her cries for help would only betray to the assassin’s allies that he had failed and summon others to finish the job.

Athaya tipped her chin up fearlessly, acutely aware that she did not look particularly imposing in her linen dressing gown. “Who hired you to do this?” If the words sounded garbled in her ears, her speech fouled by the demands of her inner recitations, the assassin was too distracted by his own predicament to notice.