The Wizard King (36 page)

He looked away dreamily, eyes brimming with wonder. “That place is everything, Athaya. Everyone who has ever lived—or will. Everything that has ever happened—or will. It is the ultimate Source. Heaven, if you will. The whole of Creation; the whole of God’s plan, unfolding in one timeless Instant. If what we bear within us is only the tiniest fraction of that,” he concluded, closing his eyes against the excruciating glory of it, “then can you even begin to imagine what awaits us
there
?”

Somehow, looking at the rapture on his face, Athaya suspected that if the Sage could tarry in that otherworldly between-place instead of whisking through on his way to some other less wondrous destination, then he would pay any price to do so. It would be death to remain there, Athaya knew—though likely the Sage did not. If heavenly realm it was, then it was no place for flesh to venture except in quick passage, like a finger through a candle’s flame.

After his lapse into bliss had passed, the Sage drained the rest of his whiskey in a single gulp, disconcerted by his unintended display of emotion. “But enough of that,” he said curtly. “If I start exchanging theories of divinity with you, Reykan-trained as you are, then we risk prattling all night… or what remains of it.”

Then, as if they had only arrived that instant, he stretched out his arms, encompassing the spacious chamber. Athaya’s eyes had adjusted to the dim light enough to discern her surroundings; the furnishings were all carved of costly Selvallanese mahogany, the tables and mantel adorned with gleaming silver plate, and the draperies, coverlets, and cushions supplied the room with every conceivable shade of blue.

“This was Drianna’s chamber,” he told her. Athaya watched him carefully, but he showed no indication that he knew of his past lover’s presence in Delfarham. “It shall be your home for a short time. But not too long, I promise you. I do not intend the sealing spell to do you the slightest bit of harm. Nor do I intend,” he added more significantly, “to leave it on long enough to enhance that power of yours again.”

She frowned at him skeptically. “You don’t intend to kill me, then? I find that rather hard to believe.”

“Yes, yes… I suppose it’s time I explained everything to you.” He strolled to the fireplace and rested his arm on the mantel, absently toying with a small ivory statue displayed there, carved in the shape of an angel.

“You see, Athaya… since the resolution of the civil wars, Caithe has grown accustomed to being governed by your family. With the perennial exception of the Lorngeld, its people have prospered. For me to simply step in and remake the world anew would cause unnecessary strain. But the transition to a dynasty of Lorngeld can be eased greatly—and very simply—in the same manner by which most political difficulties are healed.” A smile broke across his face, slow and sure. “By marriage.”

Athaya felt all the breath go out of her in a rush, as if a horse had just kicked her in the belly. His knowing gaze left no room for doubt. “You mean me?”

The Sage arched a brow. “I don’t feel inclined to marry either of your brothers.”

He set down the little statue and folded his arms across his chest, serenely confident. “A wizard king requires a wizard queen, Athaya. And despite your prior protestations, I do not think you would find it at all unpleasant being queen.”

His placating tone was infuriating and Athaya focused on her outrage to avoid thinking about the sheer dread of such a dual fate. “Frankly, Brandegarth, if I had wanted to be queen, I could have taken the crown for myself instead of waiting about for you to give it to me.”

The sharp reply only managed to encourage him. “I offer you far more than a crown, Princess. Ah, you know what I mean—do not be coy. Even you must realize what a marriage between us could mean. You know the ways of it when wizards mate together,” he said, dropping his voice to what he intended to be a seductive whisper. “It is not a mere bond of flesh, but a bond of mind and spirit. And we are the most gifted wizards in the world… can you not imagine what the nights would hold for us?”

Athaya found the very idea appalling in the extreme and fought to keep the bile where it belonged. “I hate to intrude upon your fantasy,” she replied coolly, “but in case you’ve forgotten, I’m already married.”

She disliked the way his smile changed, transforming into something more malicious. “Are you?” he challenged. “In Reyka, perhaps. But in Caithe? You have been excommunicated for almost two years, and even were you not, your marriage was performed by a Reykan wizard—not even an ordained priest! It is not binding here. No, as far as the law of Caithe is concerned, you remain quite the eligible young lady.”

The worst thing about his assertion was that it skirted dangerously close to truth, depending on how one chose to interpret the law. Not that it mattered, of course; in her heart, Athaya knew the ritual performed by Overlord Basil was far more solemn and binding than a liturgy conducted by Archbishop Lukin could ever hope to be. “How dare you even
think
that I—”

“Don’t be difficult about this, Athaya. You seem to forget how easy it would be to simply translate you into widowhood and thus satisfy both Caithan and Reykan law.”

The cruel words slashed through her fury like a blade cutting to the bone. He would do it, too; the contempt in his eyes whenever he looked at Jaren was unmistakable, unable to fathom how Athaya could settle for a man of such mundane skills when there were adepts like himself available for the asking.

“I know your past makes you unsuitable for some,” he went on, “but I care little that you are—how shall I say it?—not unspoiled. I find your willful reputation quite captivating rather than otherwise, and as both of royal blood and magic, you are the only woman in this land worthy of being my consort. Between us, Athaya, we shall found a dynasty of Lorngeld such as the world has never seen.”

Instantly, Athaya detected a flaw in his grandiose plan. “Dynasty? Aren’t you forgetting something?” Indeed, it was one of the first facts Jaren had ever taught her about magic. “Power isn’t hereditary. These children you’re talking about—the ones that will never exist,” she hastily pointed out, “would not necessarily be Lorngeld.”

It seemed he had been waiting for her to make that very point. “Perhaps not,” he said, smiling at her with all the benevolence of a demon. “But we can make them so.”

The words were like ice against her skin. She had heard such mad notions before…

“Over the past few months, I have been perusing the notes left by a Caithan wizard named Rhodri—a gentleman of your acquaintance, I believe,” he added, mocking her with his gaze. “He developed some very interesting theories on the nature of magic and its transference.”

Hot needles of fear prickled beneath Athaya’s skin, tiny points of flame that burned her in a hundred places at once. The books. Nicolas had given him those books… the one part of the Sage’s spell of compulsion that he had obeyed. But she had been so distracted by her brother’s illness that she had paid little attention to what that seemingly trivial act could lead to.

“Theories, nothing more,” she asserted, with a boldness she did not feel. “Rhodri’s experiment was a failure. He was proved wrong by his own death and the death of my father.”

Again, she felt as if she had moved her chesspiece to the very square where Brandegarth wished it to be. “Ah, but what Rhodri did was transfer power
after
it was fully formed—after a wizard’s paths had matured and the magic flourished within them. What would happen, I wonder, if a wizard’s power was moved—transplanted, if you will—while still in its seedlike state… days, weeks, even years before the
mekahn
? In infancy!” The rapture that had gripped him earlier now returned to bloom across his face in full measure. “Paths would develop normally, without the need to construct them artificially, as Rhodri was obliged to do with your father. The wizard who gives up his power would lose nothing and the one who assumes it would have no ill effects. The power would run true, as if it had always been there.”

Athaya reached back for a chair and sank dazedly into it. The idea was no less than diabolical, and the simple logic of it—the notion that it just might
work
—frightened her more than Rhodri’s scheme ever had.

“How can you, who speaks of doing God’s will,
dare
to interfere with His choices about who is granted the gift and who is not?” Her own voice sounded alien in her ears, so horrified was she by what the Sage was planning.

“He has appointed me His First Servant, Athaya,” the Sage replied, unperturbed by what she, the Circle, or any wizard of Reykan traditions would consider an unconscionable act. “He gave me the ability to see seeds for a reason—and this
is
that reason. So that I may establish His kingdom in Caithe, and from there, the world.”

Athaya turned her back on him in disgust. “The ability will fade,” she reminded him. “You will not see the seeds forever—”

He grunted impassively. “So you wish me to believe. But even if it did, I know how to regain it.”

“And when others learn it isn’t God’s grace, but only the ill effects of a sealing spell that gives you such foreknowledge? Would that not spoil the stature of your ‘gift’?”

The Sage shook his head in defiance, fast growing irritated by her ceaseless reproaches. “None could gain what I have. The ordeal would kill them—as it almost did you—their disciplines too weak to save them. See the future for what it is, Athaya!” he urged her. “You cannot turn it aside. We are on the threshold of glory, you and I, and all you need do is step across—”

“It will never work.”

Brandegarth threw back his head and laughed, his merriment echoing up to the vaulted ceiling. “Ah, the eternal cry of those who lack vision!”

“Fine, then,” Athaya snapped, “so you have our futures all plotted out. What about the rest of them? Durek and Nicolas, Cecile and the children? Jaren?”

The Sage shrugged indifferently. “I shall allow them to live if they promise to leave Caithe and never return—assuming, of course, that you do as I ask and become my queen.” He did not overlook her expression of disdain. “You do not believe me?”

“What sort of usurper leaves his enemies alive to raise an army against him later?”

“One quite confident of his ability to hold his crown. And his wife,” he hastened to add, eyes hastily skirting the curves of her body.

Athaya gripped the armrest so tightly that her fingertips tingled with numbness. She had been so sickened by her own reaction to his proposal that the more disastrous implications only now began to reach her. Even the most nebulous rumors of such a marriage could be a death blow to all that she had built with Durek, not to mention the ruin of all her work in Caithe. It would be Lukin’s prophecy come true; in her enemies’ eyes, a crown was the attainment of all her goals, the intended result of all her schemes. Were she to claim that she took it against her will, only to save the lives of others, her protestations would be deemed a farce. And those as prejudiced as Lukin might even go so far as to dismiss her marriage to Jaren as one more part of an elaborate ruse, intricately complex so as to better dupe the people.

It was patently absurd; anyone who knew her would see that. But her enemies had always proved willing to credit her with far more craftiness and ambition than she could possibly possess in one lifetime. And she had witnessed the Sage weave threads of power into his speeches before, lending credibility to his words. If he wanted the people of Caithe to believe such a thing, then in time, they would.

Having finally managed to stun her into silence, the Sage went to the bedstand and picked up a tiny brass bell. Athaya heard nothing when he shook it, but within moments, an older man stepped into the room and bowed low to his lord; he was clad all in black but for a collar of silver links.

“It grows close to dawn,” the Sage observed, “and I must go to Delfarham and see how my army progresses. Tullis will look after you until I return. Until then, I would advise you not to leave this room; the results will be most unpleasant for you, as anyone who has encountered Tullis’ binding spells can tell you. But I will return for you soon, right after I am crowned.” He lifted one finger, making a mental note. “I must remember to write to your esteemed archbishop and command him to attend me at my coronation—ah, the joy of humbling that pompous cur! Then I will come for you… and make you my queen.”

He extended a hand toward her, as if silently requesting a kiss, but she roughly slapped it away, equal parts fearful and furious.

“Never fear, Athaya,” he said with a dry chuckle. “I would not be so crude as to force myself upon you. But once you are my wife, it will be your duty—and a pleasant one, I assure you, if Drianna’s contentment was any sign—to fill our nursery with little adepts. We will make them so,” he added covertly, “if God does not.”

“You reach beyond yourself, Brandegarth of Crewe,” she said, too stricken by his mad and lofty aspirations to be angry anymore. “Reach for too much and everything you hold will slip from your grasp.”

“Reach for nothing at all,” he replied glibly, “and you are still left empty-handed. Why not take the risk?”

Athaya backed away from him, shivering against the crisp night air. “I will never do as you ask.”

“Of course you won’t,” he echoed mockingly. “And Prince Nicolas would have likewise sworn never to bring me Rhodri’s books or to offer
kahnil
to the king. What I am saying,” he warned her, all levity gone, “is that your desires can be changed… and you would never know the difference.”

On that menacing note, he uttered the words of translocation and vanished from the chamber in a shimmer of mist and starlight—an exit Athaya might have found beautifully impressive under any other circumstances.

“Is there anything you wish, my Lady?” Tullis asked, still lingering obediently in the doorway.

Athaya shot him a look of pure loathing. “I wish to get the devil out of here,” she snapped. Balling her hands into fists, she glared at the empty spot on the floor where the Sage had stood only seconds before. “But it appears,” she added acidly, “that he’s already left.”