The Wizard King (3 page)

Couric didn’t have to ask who was responsible for the Justice’s unexpected appearance; the barmaid was taking great pains to appear innocent—an expression Couric doubted she had ever worn sincerely in her life. Of the dozens of folk gathered in the tavern, only she did not appear shocked by the priest’s arrival.

“Now you’ve gone and done it,” Dickon snapped under his breath, giving Couric a nasty kick in the ankle.

“Shut up and calm down,” Couric replied with an unmistakable touch of command. “I’ll handle this. Just don’t look so damned guilty—they’ll smell it on you.” Then, in a fluid and well-practiced motion, he dipped his finger into the small leather pouch at his belt and lifted it to his nose; one sniff, and the brown powder vanished up his nostrils.

Gaunt as a corpse, the priest was as hungry looking as his bodyguards; he was, Couric thought, the kind of man who could gorge himself daily and yet never be sated—much like the heinous Tribunal for which he labored. He inspected the trio beneath the stairs as if they were nothing more than cuts of meat for sale in the city shambles, absently stroking his pointed chin and trying to determine which of them would provide the tastiest centerpiece for his dinner table.

“You there. Sarian.”

Couric scowled his displeasure. Apparently the barmaid knew Sarian silver from Caithan after all. “Is that a problem? The Isle of Sare is still a Caithan protectorate. I’m allowed to cross our borders at will.”

“That may be, but we’ve had reports of Sarians combing the western shires and stirring up trouble. Trying to raise an army against the king.” The priest paused, patiently waiting for his imposing presence to elicit his victim’s horrified confession.

Couric did not oblige him, passing the time with a relaxed sip of his Evarshot. The wine, combined with the growing effect of the pastle seed, made him feel quite invincible.

The priest’s eyes narrowed to a pair of cream-colored slits. “Come with us. All of you.”

Rob swallowed hard, and Dickon began to tremble as a fine trickle of sweat snaked down his cheek. Few who departed with the men of the Tribunal ever came back whole and healthy. More often than not, they never came back at all.

“I believe you have the wrong man,” Couric said, with the cool grace of a prince.

“Oh, we do, do we?”

With theatrical flair, the priest reached inside his robe and brandished an acorn-sized corbal crystal suspended on a leather thong. He dangled it before Couriers eyes and waited.

On the brink of his
mekahn
, Rob would feel nothing from the purple gem; clearly, however, the priest expected Couric to drop to the floor in writhing agony and beg for mercy. Holding back a triumphant cackle of laughter was one of the most difficult things Couric had ever done. Ah, but how could this silly priest know any better? Not a single wizard in Caithe—not even her notorious princess—knew that for many of the Sage’s folk, such trinkets held no terror. They would find out one day, of course… but by then it would be too late.

Couric released an indifferent sigh, as if bored by the antics of an ill-trained acrobat. “Father, please—you waste your time. I told you I was not a wizard, and even your holy crystal proves I speak the truth.”

The priest glared at the crystal, impatiently scouring its surface for flaws and chips. The bodyguards shifted their weight uneasily, betraying their surprise.

“You may not have the power yourself,” the priest snapped, refusing to admit he might have been wrong, “but you can still be a traitor. Many have flocked to Athaya’s side who have no magic, if only because they know someone who does.”

Couric hesitated imperceptibly before replying; though bolstered by the pastle seed, the better part of his mind was engaged with the crystal and he had little concentration left for the Justice. “Yes, I’m sure they have. But please, I’d advise you to put that jewel of yours away. The patrons of this tavern aren’t well-off or overly intelligent, and one of them might just be drunk enough to slit your throat for that expensive little bauble.”

Although Couric knew such a thing was wildly improbable—judging from their reaction to his arrival, no one in the tavern would dare breathe the same air as the Justice, much less try to pick his pockets—the priest himself was not so certain. His jaw worked silently, on the verge of declaring the audacity of such a crime, but he scanned the array of dirty, drunken men slouched on beer-soaked gaming tables around him and hastily reconsidered. Men had done more foolish things for far less wealth, and a corbal this size would bring enough to feed and clothe everyone in the tavern for months. The priest dropped the gem into a small velvet bag and stuffed it deep inside his robes.

Couric blinked several times in rapid succession as if to dispel a sudden wave of vertigo. “Now, my friend, let me assure you once again that I am no friend of Athaya Trelane. I’ve never set eyes on her in my life, and I certainly don’t wish this senseless crusade of hers to succeed.”

The Justice eyed him skeptically. “So you say…”

Damn, but these priests were persistent! Before he spoke again, Couric relaxed his muscles and steadied himself with a cleansing breath, reaching inward for those delicate threads of persuasion that would soon wind their way around the Justice’s narrow mind.

“I would not dare lie to a man in God’s service,” he went on. Had there been other trained wizards nearby, they would have easily detected the subtle shift in the rhythm of Couric’s voice. But Princess Athaya’s hold was not so strong in the capital city of Delfarham, and few Lorngeld dared to venture into public places here.

“In fact, I think you would do well to look to the young lady who summoned you here,” he suggested. “Turning in an innocent man to hide one’s own crime is a common enough ploy. Especially if she thinks to earn a rich reward for a false accusation.”

The priest’s brows furrowed inward like angry stormclouds building on the horizon. ‘There are severe penalties for deliberately interfering with the Tribunal’s justice.”

Couric cocked his head toward the barmaid, now seated on a husky man’s lap and pressed tight against him, brazenly offering her wares. She stole a glance at the priest and, sensing the deadly shift in his thoughts, started to wriggle from the man’s grasp. But her customer was beguiled by the goods she had for sale and roughly hauled her back.

“See how she glances this way too often?” Couric said, pulling the strands of his persuasion ever tighter. “She has a bit too much interest in our conversation…”

“As if she wanted to make sure we arrested you,” the priest murmured, obediently completing the thought.

“Exactly.”

The priest turned to his men and gestured sharply. “Bring her.”

Like a rabbit flushed from its thicket, the barmaid bolted for the safety of the kitchens, but stumbled over a tin cup left on the floor after the earlier brawl and went sprawling across an empty table. She grabbed the rim of the table as if it were the edge of a cliff, but the guardsmen quickly descended upon her and roughly pulled her away, sending dozens of piercing splinters deep into her palms. She kicked and shrieked in savage futility as they secured her wrists with iron shackles and dragged her away for questioning. Despite her wretched screams, no one moved to help her. Few risked even a glance of pity; to do either was to invite the same fate.

Couric sniffed and turned his back to the door. What would happen to the wench he neither knew nor cared—it served her right for meddling in a wizard’s affairs. And the priest? His mind had been pitifully easy to bend. Fanatics the world over were all alike—quick to embrace invented devils when they fail to find the ones they seek.

Still cowering beneath the stairs, Rob and Dickon gaped their astonishment not only at the fact that they were still alive, but at how easily the Sarian had turned the Justice aside. “B-but you… the crystal!” Rob stammered. “How did you—”

“Magic can be an effective weapon,” Couric explained, with an enigmatic tilt of his brow. “Yours can be, too, if you’ll but let the Sage shape it for you. And when the Sage takes power in Caithe, men such as that will never trouble you again.”

Rob shook his head in disbelief. “I’ll admit… you’ve got my interest now, if you didn’t before.”

His brother turned on him, scandalized. “Rob!”

“What am I supposed to do, Dickon? I don’t want to be absolved, so the only thing left is treason. All I can do is pick which kind of treason I want. And he’s right—whoever this Sage is, he’s offering more than Princess Athaya ever did. We’re not a rich family, Dickon… think of what some extra money could mean to Mother, now that Father’s gone.”

“But if you’re caught—”

“You didn’t turn him over to that Justice, Dickon,” Couric observed. “That makes you just as guilty if he’s caught. Better for you—and your family—if Rob joins us and wins you all a rich reward one day.

“Here,” he said, dropping a few pieces of silver into Rob’s palm. It was as much as the poor boy would earn in a year and the shock in his eyes revealed as much. “Come to Eriston, in the far northwest. Join us and there will be far more than that to line your purse. The Sage is a rich man, Rob. His people pay generous tribute to him, and in turn he protects them from harm and guides them with his divine wisdom.”

Couric rested a hand on Rob’s shoulder. “Those coins are a mere token. When our people rule Caithe, we shall divide its riches amongst ourselves, taking our rightful due as God’s stewards. I’m hoping for a dukedom myself,” he added enticingly. “Perhaps if you prove a loyal and worthy servant to the Sage, he shall reward you with a post in his court—or even more.” Couric carefully omitted any mention of Dickon’s reward, and for good reason. Unless Dickon developed the power himself, whatever came to him would be solely from the benevolence and charity of the Lorngeld.

“There can be no doubt of the outcome of this battle,” Couric concluded. “Caithe cannot hope to stand against an army of wizards—especially if her only weapons are corbal crystals. You can stand with the victors within the space of a year, Rob. The whole of Caithe will be ours for the taking; no landless mercenary hired to sack a wealthy city has ever been promised so much reward for so little effort.”

Rob thought for a moment, pensively rubbing a coin between his thumb and forefinger. Then, his decision made, he folded his hand over the small circle of silver and gripped it tight. “When do you move?”

Ignoring Dickon’s dazed look of dismay, Couric smiled in sweet victory. “When the Sage arrives to lead us,” he replied, adding an inward prayer that the Sage would survive his ordeal under the sealing spell and arrive in Caithe whole and strong… and reasonably sane. Couric pushed back his stool and settled his cloak about his shoulders. “But don’t worry—it will be soon, my friend. Very soon.”

Bidding his new ally good night, Couric slipped out of the tavern and melted into the shadows. He walked at a rapid pace through the winding streets of Delfarham, hoping to reach the sanctuary of his bed before the invigorating effects of the pastle seed wore off and left him weary.

He would see Rob again; he was confident of that. With a self-satisfied grin, Couric thought of the great number of men and women he had approached over the past few weeks whom he expected to see again. The Sage had been right all along: Caithe was ripe for full-scale rebellion, and those who had lost faith in Athaya Trelane had shown little reluctance to follow another—especially one who promised far more than the outlawed princess of Caithe had ever done.

Couric whistled softly as he strolled across the cobbled square in front of Saint Adriel’s Cathedral.
The place will need rechristening
, he mused, skimming his gaze along the length of the church’s massive spires. Once he ascended to power in this land, the Sage would not tolerate any house of God to bear the name of Adriel, the man responsible for instigating the so-called sacrament of absolution: the bane of the Lorngeld—and the death of them—ever since the Time of Madness.

Then Couric turned his eyes to north, where the lamplit towers of Delfar Castle rose serenely into the clement night.
Enjoy these times of peace, your Majesty
, he thought, as a baleful smile spread slowly across his face.
Before the cold winds blow again, Caithe will have a new king
—
a
wizard
king.
He let his gaze drift off to the west, toward the distant Isle of Sare.
And every corbal crystal in your treasury will not keep him from your shores.

“How long is Master Hedric going to be
in
there?” Athaya asked impatiently, pacing back and forth across a spartanly furnished chamber in the south tower of Belmarre Castle. Nervous fingers picked at the fraying sleeve of her homespun kirtle, and she glanced to the stairwell with rhythmic regularity, as if waiting for news of an imminent birth and expecting a physician to appear at any moment and declare the new arrival a boy or a girl.

Seated at a walnut table cluttered with books and scrolls and leather tubes, Jaren looked up from the fragile slip of parchment he was reading. “Hedric’s only been in with him for half an hour,” he said, content to temper his own concerns in the absorbing pursuit of knowledge. “Give it time.”

“Time is one thing Nicolas may not have,” Athaya replied, snapping a loose thread from her sleeve. “And it’s been so long already.”

Forcing herself to stop pacing for a while, Athaya leaned against the windowsill and gazed out at the lush, rose-scented expanse of late spring surrounding the steward’s tower. It had been a cold and snowy night in February when she had delivered her brother Nicolas into Adam Graylen’s care; now it was a hot and languid June. The world had undergone a thorough transformation, but sadly, Prince Nicolas had not.

More than four months had passed since the Sage of Sare ensorcelled her brother, coercing the Caithan prince to murder his elder brother and king, Durek. He was confident that the atrocity would be blamed on Athaya—which it had been, she thought with a scowl—thus neatly destroying the reputations, if not the very lives, of nearly every legitimate claimant to the Caithan throne. But even the Sage proved vulnerable to error. Under his sway, Nicolas went so far as to offer the tainted wine to Durek, but his inner self rebelled against the crime he was about to commit, and he was able to resist the spell long enough to break the brunt of its force—and slap the cup from Durek’s lips before he took the fatal sip. But the defiance cost Nicolas has sanity, leaving him little more than a child, in need of constant care and with few memories of the prince he had been, or the king—and kingdom—he had almost destroyed.