The Wizard King (30 page)

Athaya snapped a leaf from a low-hanging maple branch. When, exactly, had they stopped being friends?

It was long before her magic was born, that much was sure. Her power—and most importantly, her decision to accept it and not submit meekly to absolution—was only the catalyst that had driven them even further apart than they had been before. Perhaps she had always been envious of the attention he merited as the eldest, destined to rule after Kelwyn, while she and Nicolas were relegated to the gallery—herself farthest of all, worth only what she could bring to Caithe as a royal bride. And perhaps, she mused, Durek had envied her, too, in his way; wishing, despite his protestations of duty, that he could set his responsibilities aside at times and go exploring in shadowy coves for a pirate’s long-forgotten treasure, as his younger siblings had often done.

God’s breath, there were so many things she should be saying to him! But Athaya’s tongue was strangely still, fearful of unraveling the delicate tapestry of friendship that had been woven these past few weeks. She gazed at her brother imploringly, wishing he would speak instead, but when he met her eyes, sensing the train of her thoughts, he awkwardly looked away.

Durek made to circle around a tangle of brambles in his path, but Athaya caught his arm with a grin and guided him through the thorny mess. An illusion—and one of Ranulf’s best.

“How… do you know the way?” he asked wide-eyed, peering back at the illusory brush, and then ahead at the maze of green and brown before them.

“Marks. On the trees.”

Durek frowned. “But I don’t—”

“Only wizards can see them.”

He nodded. “Ah.”

And for the remainder of the hour they talked of trivial things; admiring the abundance of the trilliums, remarking upon the heady scent of pine, and estimating the number of deer that made their home in this royal wood.

Before long, the trail opened into a clearing dotted with canvas tents, haphazard shelters of branches and pine boughs, and an assemblage of crumbling stone buildings. The king’s arrival was indeed expected, and as in Kaiburn, curious faces filled every doorway and window. The mood was not as accepting here as in the city—little wonder, Athaya reflected, as Durek and his clergy had been trying to exterminate the citizens of Kaiburn for almost two years—but while no one raised a cheer to their king, none spoke openly against his presence, following Athaya’s lead in offering him trust and friendship until he proved himself unworthy of it.

Durek instinctively stepped back as a huge red-haired man, knife brazenly hanging from his belt, strode up to greet them. “Welcome back m’dear,” Ranulf said, sweeping Athaya up into a hearty bear hug of a welcome. He set her down and touched a meaty finger to her pearled chaplet and gossamer veil. “Haven’t seen you look so fine in a damned long time.”

Athaya offered him a lopsided smile. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“And you’re welcome, too, o’ course,” Ranulf added to Durek, though with an unmistakably vigilant glint in his eye.

“Er, thank you,” Durek replied, equally vigilant.

“Pass the word that his Majesty and I are going to rest for a few minutes before he speaks to them,” she instructed Ranulf. “And could you have someone bring us each a mug of something cool to drink? We’ve had a long walk and I’m parched.”

Ranulf gave a jaunty salute of obedience and then Athaya led Durek around the edge of the clearing toward the chapel where he could prepare his next address. He had known what to say to the people of Kaiburn all along, but to her following of wizards, Athaya suspected that, as yet, he had little idea of what words to offer.

“This is where you’ve been living?” he murmured as they walked, sneaking glances at the compound and inwardly appalled that a Trelane would ever have to live in such reduced circumstances. Before she replied, Athaya quickly bade him duck before entangling himself in a line of freshly washed clothing strung across two trees.

“It used to be a monastic retreat before King Faltil’s troops slaughtered all the wizards here.” She hoped her answer didn’t sound accusatory; it was simply a statement of historical fact. She took him inside the empty chapel, murmuring a brief apology for the debris littering the floor. No matter how often it was swept, leaves and twigs found their way inside daily, and Durek’s boots crunched on them like gravel as he walked up the narrow aisle to the altar. His fingers touched upon the various objects placed there—the bowl of a broken chalice, the curl of a silver brooch, an ancient, worm-eaten copy of the
Book of Sages
—all relics of the brotherhood that once lived and worshiped peacefully in this place.

Durek sighed heavily as he lifted a fragment of colored glass to the sunlight; the gesture sent a bright red line slanting across the floor like a trickle of blood running from the altar. He was uneasy here; this sanctuary offered him no comfort. Perhaps, Athaya reflected, he feared that he had inherited far more from his ancestor Faltil than he had from Kelwyn, feeling himself a partner in the slaughter as he and his Tribunal carried on what the long-dead Faltil had started. For the first time, those deaths seemed to disturb him, as if he could sense the multitude of ghosts in this place, rebuking him for his callousness and naming him unfit to be king.

“Lukin told me that King Faltil’s crown is buried here,” he remarked, not turning around. He held up another scrap of glass to the sunlight, this time striping the floor with blue.

Athaya felt her muscles tense as her eyes flickered to the flagstone beneath which the crown was buried, not ten yards from where Durek stood. The dried mud sealing it in place was slightly darker than the rest; someone who knew what to look for would have little trouble picking out the right stone.

“One of his prisoners told him where it was,” Durek continued with seeming idleness. “Or confessed it under torture, more like. A friend of the boy who stole it.”

“I won’t return it, Durek,” Athaya said guardedly. “I can’t. Not yet.”

Durek let out a brittle wisp of laughter. “I didn’t think you would.” He did not mention the crown again.

In the silence that followed, Gilda slipped into the quiet chapel with two mugs of frothy beer, leaving them, she departed with a courteous, if uneasy, curtsy to her king. Athaya brought Durek his mug and then settled into the first pew. Although the day’s heat was subsiding as evening approached, the stone still felt cool and refreshing against her back. Durek did not join her, but lingered at the altar, strangely unwilling to leave it.

“What am I going to tell them?’ he asked, sipping absently at his mug. For a moment, Athaya wasn’t certain if he were referring to the people in the clearing or the myriad ghosts of long-dead wizards, waiting to judge him when he finally came to answer for his deeds.

Athaya wasn’t sure if he meant to ask the question aloud, but she ventured a reply. “Just tell them the truth, Durek. Tell them what’s in your heart. They can’t ask any more of you than that.”

“They can ask for my head on a platter and you damned well know it!” he snapped, his composure splintering under the onerous weight of the task before him. He drained half of his beer in a single, frenzied gulp. “You’re probably enjoying every minute of this, too. Seeing me here, without defenses, and about to make an utter fool of myself.”

Once, such a remark might have instigated a vicious quarrel, but here in this place, Athaya knew it was only fear that made him speak so and let the insult pass. “Durek, you’re not being foolish at all. It took great courage for you to come here today. In fact, I can’t think of a time when I’ve respected you more than I do right now. And that’s God’s own truth, Durek. I swear it.”

His mouth jerked open, ready to accuse her of not knowing the first thing about God’s own truth or any other kind, but then it snapped closed just as quickly. He gave her a peculiar look just then, knowing she had to be lying but at the same time certain that she wasn’t. He set his mug down, grunted something unintelligible, and then stepped away from the altar. Outside, the bright glare of day was slowly fading into the muted colors of twilight and the hum of voices was growing louder as the Lorngeld gathered to hear their king. He could delay no longer.

“I may as well get this over with.”

Nodding silently, Athaya led him to the campfire near the derelict bell tower; there was no need to ring it, as every single member of her following was already assembled. She hopped up onto a tree stump so that everyone could see her, then offered a few words of greeting, professing her happiness at being ‘home’ again. Then, stepping down, she offered the platform to Durek, apologizing that they could offer nothing more dignified.

“Dignity is the least of my problems right now,” he mumbled, awkwardly shifting cloak, sleeves, and other regal trappings aside as he clambered onto the stump. Despite his jitters, he almost laughed at the picture he presented—a bejeweled king balancing himself on a rotted tree stump in the middle of the woods—and vagrant smiles of empathy appeared on the faces of many in attendance.

Even before he began, Athaya could tell how difficult this was for him. Like a wizard facing the Tribunal, Durek stood before the victims of his policies with only words to aid him. And devoid of magic in a place where nearly all possessed it, he would be powerless to save himself should his words not have the hoped-for effect. He was afraid, but only those who knew him intimately could discern it. His fingers curled and uncurled in steady rhythm, the ruby signet ring catching the firelight with each anxious movement.

“I thank you for permitting me to come here,” Durek began, sweeping his gaze over every face before him. “It shows greater charity than perhaps I would have offered, given reverse circumstances.”

His audience was silent. Waiting. Listening. Judging him. Unlike the Tribunal, their verdict was not preordained. “My father devoted his life to uniting a long-divided kingdom. He brought together disparate provinces plagued by civil war for centuries.” As Durek briefly summarized the brilliant series of campaigns that led to Kelwyn’s victory, Athaya noted that he never broached the subject of their father’s adopted magic, hoping to avoid adding that volatile agent to the mix of his speech. It would not serve his purpose here to be led into confessing how adamantly opposed to such an act he had been, even as a young boy of eight.

“Caithe has been thus united for only a short time and now the Sage of Sare has come to divide us again. I say that we should not let this happen, but should do everything in our power to repel him; to stand as one against him.”

He reminded them of the Sage’s frighteningly rapid sweep from Eriston to Kilfarnan, of the ruin and death brought down upon all those who refused to join him, and of the reports that hundreds of the Sage’s men were even now gathering near Kaiburn, readying an attack. “My soldiers can fight those in the Sage’s army who have no magic—he has swayed many to his side, either by telling them they will develop the power later or by reminding them that they will share in the future rewards of a Lorngeld brother, sister, husband, or wife. But my soldiers can do little against wizards—especially those among the Sage’s men who can turn aside the influences of a corbal crystal. But you have the ability to fight them!” he said, jitters all but forgotten in the passion of his speech. “And it is in you that Caithe’s only hope rests.”

Ranulf got to his feet and regarded Durek coolly. “So now you need our help, and suddenly we’re not the Devil’s Children anymore, is that it?” Several heads bobbed behind him at the question, wishing they’d had the gumption to ask it.

“I won’t lie to you and say I’ve completely changed my mind,” Durek admitted. “I was taught certain things about the purpose and origin of the powers that you possess, and I simply can’t dismiss those beliefs overnight. But there are wizards at my court who are eager to explain their views to me and perhaps one day I can resolve my feelings on the subject. But none of us have time to wait for that day,” he urged, sweeping his gaze from Ranulf to the others gathered in the clearing. “In the same way Athaya and I have set aside our differences for the greater good, I ask that you do the same. Only together can we drive this intruder from our land. After that danger is past, we can try to resolve our disputes to everyone’s satisfaction.”

After a moment’s thought, Ranulf sat back down on his blanket, seemingly appeased.

“I won’t order you to help me,” Durek concluded. “But I beseech you all to lend your unique talents to the defense of this city—and to Caithe itself—for the good of us all.”

In the ensuing silence, Athaya gazed up at him with a pride that she had not felt since she was a child, easily awed by all the wondrous things that an older brother could do. She looked upon his face—the meager beard, the thinning hair, the slouching eyes—and for the first time, noticed how he was growing to resemble Kelwyn as the years wore on. And, slowly, growing to be like him in other ways. At last.

The clearing was unusually quiet as Durek clumsily climbed down from the tree stump. Before he could shrink away, Athaya enclosed him in a warm embrace. He drew back, visibly puzzled. This was no ritual kiss of friendship done to please their audience, but affection straight from her heart.

“I don’t think Father himself ever made a finer speech;” she whispered, so quiet that no one else could hear.

Somehow, coming from her, he knew it for the deep compliment it was; embarrassed, he simply cleared his throat and said nothing, his hands worrying at a sudden wrinkle in his surcoat.

As the Lorngeld in the clearing began to whisper among themselves and disperse to their tents, Master Tonia came forward and offered Durek a cup of crimson-colored wine.

“We’d be honored if you would stay and share our supper with us, your Majesty. It’s simple fare, but we’re not such bad cooks as all that.”

Durek balked as he took the cup, flustered by the woman’s sincerity. His first instinct was to decline, yet Athaya watched him struggle with himself, unable to voice the words.

“Why not?” Athaya whispered in his ear. “We’re far better company than your guardsmen—especially if Ranulf gets drunk and starts singing.”