The Wizard King (4 page)

Athaya whispered a private prayer as she turned her back on the verdant swells of earth before her. Only Master Hedric and his decades of mystic learning could save her brother now.

After a grueling hour of waiting, during which Athaya had yanked an entire handful of loose threads from her sleeve and scattered them like rushes on the floor, she heard a fragile sigh and saw Master Hedric emerge from the stairwell leading to the bedchamber above. Slate-colored robes hung listlessly from his frame like curtains in stagnant air and he leaned heavily on his gnarled cherrywood staff.

Athaya let the last strand of wool fall from her grasp. “How is he?”

“Resting quietly.” Reading the agitation on her face, he added, “Just let me sit a moment before we talk. I’ve done what I can for the moment, but I’m a bit tired.”

Athaya nodded, stamping down her impatience. She had waited months already; she could wait a few minutes more. Moreover, she should be grateful that Master Hedric was here at all. When Jaren had returned to his Reykan homeland to find out what he could about the spell of compulsion—a spell long forbidden by the Circle of Masters because of its inherent unscrupulousness—Athaya assumed that Hedric would simply share what knowledge he possessed and send his instructions back with Jaren. She was stunned by Hedric’s unexpected arrival three days ago; at seventy-one, travel was a burden to him, and his decision to return with Jaren made Athaya all the more fearful. Nicolas’ situation was dire indeed if Hedric thought it required his own personal attention.

“I’m sorry if I’m rushing you,” she said by way of apology. “I never should have insisted that we leave for Belmarre the very day that you arrived from Reyka. You must be exhausted by now, after close to a month on the road.”

“Oh, I’ll manage,” Hedric replied, summoning a crooked smile as he rubbed the fatigue from his eyes. “I’m not as old as all that, you know.”

Once, Athaya would have chuckled her agreement and thought no more upon it, but now she bit her lip and remained silent. Master Hedric had aged noticeably since she last saw him in October. His movements were slower and more studied, his eyes in need of brighter light by which to peruse his myriad books and scrolls, and Athaya soon discovered that she needed to speak a shade louder if she didn’t wish to repeat herself. Although far from a young man when he began to instruct her in the ways of magic two years ago, Athaya never thought of the Master as old before—his keen wit and vitality had always neatly distracted her from the fact. But now that vitality was ebbing, and it was a weight upon her heart to realize that his star would not burn forever.

Athaya’s eyes flickered briefly toward the spiral stair. “May I see him?”

“You can look in on him, but try not to wake him. Our first session was somewhat… difficult. He needs rest.”

“With respect, Master Hedric,” Jaren observed, “I think you both do.”

While Jaren set about making his former teacher a cup of chamomile tea, Athaya ascended to her brother’s bedchamber. The weathered door creaked only slightly as she entered and gave a wordless greeting to Adam Graylen. Despite carrying almost as many years as Hedric, he was neatly tucked in the windowseat like a boy, paging through a book of rudimentary magic that Hedric had loaned to him so that he could better understand the nature of the prince’s illness. Adam was the longtime steward of the earl of Belmarre—one of Caithe’s few lords who, while reluctant to support Athaya openly, could be trusted not to betray her or Nicolas’ temporary presence in his domain. Athaya smiled wistfully as she passed by the older man, seeing as she ever did the image of his long-dead son Tyler, beloved to them both, in the depths of those tranquil green eyes.

She curled up on an oak chest at the foot of Nicolas’ bed and gazed at him, his skin delicately pale against the deep blue coverlet. Light brown curls were combed neatly back from the smooth cheekbones, and he slumbered peaceful as a babe, breathing slow and deep. That alone was a striking change for the better. Nicolas no longer tossed fitfully, tormented by the seductive voice of a Sarian wizard whispering murder in his mind.

The voice was still there, but it was silent for now.

Assured that he was at peace, Athaya slid off the chest and went to his side, laying a gentle kiss atop his forehead. She jumped when Nicolas’ eyes fluttered open in response; he had not been sleeping so soundly after all.

Nicolas was not startled by her presence; her kiss had convinced him she was a friend. A friend… but nothing more; her brother’s eyes were devoid of recognition. “Is he coming back?” Nicolas murmured drowsily, his voice sandy from disuse.

“Who?”

“The old man that was here.”

“Yes,” Athaya said, forcing a smile. “Yes, he’ll be back.”

Nicolas nodded contentedly. “My other friend hasn’t come yet. He’s a wizard, too. He laughs a lot and tells stories. Mostly dirty ones.”

Athaya tried valiantly not to betray any glimmer of despair. “I’m sure he’ll come as soon as he can.”
If he’s still alive
, she added privately. Ranulf had fallen captive to the Sage on the same day as Nicolas and had not been seen or heard from since. The onetime mercenary was Sarian-born, so Athaya doubted the Sage would kill him outright, but who could say whether he would ever leave the island again?

“Do you live here, too?” Nicolas asked through a yawn.

Athaya pursed her lips tightly to keep them from trembling. Hedric had eased Nicolas’ suffering, but Nicolas himself was still astray, lost in the dark mists of his memory. “No. I’m just visiting. I’m a friend of the old man, too.”

“Oh.” Satisfied with her explanation, Nicolas rolled over and promptly drifted back to sleep.

Athaya blinked back a tear as she retreated from the bedside. At least he wasn’t in pain, she reminded herself. At least the Sage hadn’t destroyed him fully.

“Good night, Nicolas,” she whispered.

When Athaya returned to the lower chamber, Master Hedric was visibly refreshed by both his tea and his moment of rest. The deep worry- lines on his face had smoothed back into mere wrinkles, and his eyes had regained some of their sparkle.

“That’s as peaceful as I’ve seen him since it happened.” She poured herself a cup of tea and joined Hedric and Jaren at the table, passing her eyes over the staggering array of books and scrolls that they had brought with them from Reyka. “It looks as if you brought your entire library.”

“Not exactly,” Hedric replied. “Some of these are from my own collection, but most came from the archives at Wizard’s College in Tenosce. I told Overlord Basil what I was looking for and he set a small army of students to the task. Basil has only a small circle of intimate friends,” Hedric felt obliged to explain, knowing how rare it was for the normally irascible wizard to do anything so magnanimous, “but he counts Prince Nicolas among them.”

Hedric picked up one of the older scrolls and smiled. “Confidentially, I suspect that our bounty is partially due to Basil’s ‘volunteers’ being too terrified to come up empty-handed. In addition to the spell of compulsion, Basil’s contingent of scholars turned up some references to the Sarian cult—specifically the prophecy that spawned them—and a bit about the Rite of Challenge by which they choose a new leader. Basil brought the lot of it to Ath Luaine scarcely a fortnight later and even offered to fill in for me at Osfonin’s court while I’m gone.”

Jaren grinned broadly. “I suspect Lord Basil is happier about that arrangement than his Majesty. Osfonin respects his rank as Overlord of the Circle, but thinks Basil is rather… well, stuffy.”

Hedric emitted a dry chuckle. “Osfonin has always been a shrewd judge of character. Oh, that reminds me,” he went on, turning to Athaya, “Prince Felgin sends his fervent hopes for Nicolas’ recovery. He wanted to pay a personal visit, but Osfonin is quite serious about keeping his eldest son close at heel until he’s safely married. And Queen Cecile is endearing herself to Osfonin—if not as much to Felgin—by spending her days in exile helping the prince make his choice of bride.”

Athaya’s smile was bittersweet, glad that the Caithan queen was making the best of her unfortunate situation. Cecile and her two children had fled to the sanctuary of the Reykan capital once it was no longer safe for them in Caithe. Not only would the Sage be a threat to young Prince Mailen—if he was willing to murder Durek, why not Durek’s heir?—but Cecile’s well-known friendship with Athaya had spurred the Tribunal to suspect her involvement with the attempt on Durek’s life. Rather than offer explanations that the king and his Justices were in no humor to hear, Cecile chose to flee. In Reyka, at least, she could teach her son and daughter not to despise the Lorngeld for what they were. Under Durek’s guidance, they would learn nothing so charitable.

“Will she be happy there? It might be a long time before it’s safe for her to come home again.”

“She is content. The Reykan court has always proved a hospitable shelter to runaway Trelanes,” Hedric remarked, the twinkle in his eye reminding Athaya of her own exile there less than two years ago. “If she has one regret, it is the fate of Lord Gessinger. She yearns for word that he is alive and well.”

Athaya nodded in empathy; she would like to receive the same news herself. After acting as a decoy to ease Cecile’s escape, Mosel Gessinger had been imprisoned in Delfar Castle and, like Ranulf, not heard from since.

“But Cecile is not as eager to return as you might think,” Hedric added. “Before Jaren and I left, she sent a letter to Durek, telling him in rather pointed terms that she would not have her children raised in a land defiled by the Tribunal’s brand of justice, and that if he continued to abuse the Lorngeld and not let them live in peace, then she and the children would return to Caithe only upon news of his death.”

“I’d hate to think that his death is the only solution to this problem,” Athaya said solemnly. Over the years, she had argued with Durek, cursed him, struck him, and been thoroughly infuriated by him, but she had never wished him dead, no matter what he, his Tribunal, or even the Sage would have the Caithan people believe.

Athaya pushed Durek to the back shelf of her mind; Nicolas was in far greater danger of death than his Majesty was at the moment. “Now that you’ve seen Nicolas for yourself, what can you tell me about the spell of compulsion?”

“Not much you’ll want to hear, I’m afraid.” Hedric looked away, tapping his fingertips together as he carefully phrased his explanation. “The spell acts like a net around Nicolas’ mind, constraining its actions. The Sage’s thoughts are psychically grafted onto Nicolas’ own. If this spell is any indication of his talent, then the Sage is a master indeed. That he is an adept is indisputable. It’s almost impossible to tell where Nicolas’ own thoughts leave off and the Sage’s begin.”

“But if you can distinguish between the two, doesn’t that mean you can remove the Sage’s?” Jaren asked.

“That’s not as simple a thing as it sounds. If I try to eliminate the Sage’s thoughts, I might very likely snip out many of Nicolas’ as well. Such dabbling can be very dangerous. Despite all we know of it, the human mind is still an abyss of mysteries. I could inadvertently do far worse damage than the Sage did.”

“Worse?” Athaya exclaimed, appalled by such a prospect. “I hardly think that’s possible.”

“No? Think, Athaya. What if I mistakenly plucked out that part of Nicolas’ memory that tells him not to wrap his hand around a hot iron, or the deeper part that reminds him to keep breathing at night?” Hedric paused, allowing her to absorb the unpleasant implications. “It is these types of errors that disturb me… and they are shockingly easy to make.”

Athaya stared absently into her teacup; the fragrant liquid was still reasonably warm, but she had suddenly lost her appetite for it. “Then nothing can be done?”

Hedric shook his head in regret. “Nothing permanent. I think the wisest course of action would be for me to help him live with his affliction. I can loosen the threads of the compulsion, but I think it would be extremely foolish to try to unweave them entirely. No, the spell must be removed by the Sage himself. Or removed indirectly, by his death.”

“Or by Nicolas giving in to the compulsion and doing what the Sage wants him to,” Athaya said, noting the last gruesome—and least desirable—possibility.

“Yes,” Hedric granted, “but I sincerely doubt that will happen—not at this late stage. The brunt of the spell’s force was broken at Nicolas’ initial refusal to obey. The spell is still there, obviously, and much of Nicolas’ mental energies are occupied with resisting its pull—thus his childlike state and loss of memory. But by loosening the Sage’s grip, I think I can keep Nicolas comfortable and lucid and perhaps restore his memory somewhat. It will be an ongoing task, like having to dust once a week to keep the shelves clean.”

It was a solution, but not the one Athaya had been praying for. And one unpleasant question remained to be asked. “The spell is compelling him to kill Durek… but what happens if Durek dies some other way and Nicolas has nothing to do with it?”

Hedric’s expression was grave. “Then he would remain in his current state until his death—unless the Sage dies first—since he would have no way of ever completing his task.”

The room was silent for a long time—so silent, that Athaya could hear Adam turning the brittle pages of his magic book in the chamber above.

“You spoke of caring for him yourself,” Athaya said at last, “but shouldn’t I do that? He’s my brother and I feel responsible for him. And the sealing spell made my powers even stronger than they were before…”

Her eyes drifted back to the window, and the bar of late afternoon sun that slated into the chamber and burnished it with gold. She looked forward to the coming summer; last spring, with her powers imprisoned by a sealing spell, she had declined into lunacy and lost three months of her life. Athaya shivered at what few memories of those days remained to her; memories of helplessness and rage and pain… God, such pain. With no outlet, the pressures of her caged magic began to build to a lethal level, bringing her closer to death with each passing day. But in the end, as was true with most of her life’s calamities, the ordeal had made her stronger; now it would be worth every day of hell she had endured if she could use her new level of skill to help Nicolas. Compared to that, her abilities to cast spells effortlessly, to traverse the whole of Caithe in the blink of an eye, and even to detect the dormant seeds of magic before they bloomed inside a wizard’s mind—a thing no wizard in history had ever dreamed possible—paled to insignificance.