The Wizard King (8 page)

When her vision cleared, she saw Ranulf sprawled flat on his back, limbs splayed in abandon like a starfish washed up on the sand. His eyes were open and glassy, his body motionless. Beside him, the normally imperturbable Tullis stared in wide-eyed shock, shaken to his soul by the awesome power that had just been unleashed.

The Sage bent down beside Ranulf, slack-jawed with astonishment; clearly, he had not expected his spell to carry such force. His eyes shifted and he stared at his empty palm as if he had never seen its like before.

“Is he dead?” Drianna asked, kneeling beside the fallen man. Black spots danced before her eyes in the spell’s aftermath. “Brand, did you—”

Ranulf’s groan of misery announced that he was alive, but not particularly glad of it at the moment. “I can’t move…”

It took several minutes before Ranulf’s numbed limbs tingled to life again and he could sit up without toppling over. He cast a furtive glance at the Sage as he swiftly reassessed the odds of winning a fight. Finding them heavily weighted against him, he tossed a scathing glare at Drianna, content to blame her for everything.

Still preoccupied by the stunning bolt of power he had summoned, Brandegarth flexed his fingers and curled them into a fist. “Nicolas is alive,” he murmured absently, resuming their conversation. “Or at least he was the last I heard. I’ve been somewhat out of touch.” Then he let his hand fall to his side, bracing it against his thigh like a sword ready to be drawn again at the slightest need. “Now, as to the message I wish you to carry. It is simply this: tell Athaya I have come. By the time you reach her, I shall have touched the shores of Caithe.” The Sage graced him with a thoroughly evil smile. “Her people do not trust her as they once did—a pity!—and they need a new leader. I plan to provide them with one… one who can offer them far more than your pious little princess.”

Before Ranulf’s addled brain could think of a suitably acrid retort, the Sage gestured to his steward. “Tullis, escort this man to the front gates. Give him food for the journey and enough coin to hire a ferry to the mainland.”

Drianna saw the bitter reply poised on Ranulf’s lips. But he swallowed it like sour wine, realizing that the Sage could snuff out his life like a candleflame if he was angered, thus leaving no one to warn Athaya of his plans. Ranulf had not survived all those years as a mercenary soldier without learning the wisdom of retreating from a hopeless battle.

Unnerved by his lord’s show of strength, Tullis took the prisoner’s arm and hurried him away, almost as glad to be gone from the Sage’s presence as Ranulf himself.

“He should reach Athaya’s camp in about a fortnight,” Drianna observed quietly. “Do you really plan to be on the mainland so soon?” She would have preferred him to remain on Sare and rest for a few weeks to make certain he was fully recovered from the sealing spell. But the faraway glory in his eyes convinced her that he would do nothing of the kind.

“I can wait no longer, Drianna.” His smile was enigmatic. “My people need me.”

Then he took her hand and led her to the edge of his great feather bed. He patted the fur-lined coverlet beside him, and when she settled at his side, he cupped her face between his palms and kissed her gently. “And now, my love, shall we scry your future?”

Again, Drianna felt torn between wanting to know and wanting to shrink from that omnipotent touch. The moment they had long awaited had come; the moment that would determine the course of their remaining years. She fought down the queasy feeling in her belly and tried to think only hopeful thoughts. The prospect of marriage was entrancing enough, but when he won his prize… why, then she would become queen of Caithe! Not a bad accomplishment for the daughter of a poor peasant and sister to a swineherd.

“Look inside of me, my love,” she whispered at last. “Look… and tell me what you see.”

Drianna closed her eyes and waited, her heart hammering wildly in her chest. At first, she felt nothing but the warm flesh of his hands upon her face, but then came the feather-light touch of his presence, brushing the insides of her mind, searching for dormant magic.

One simple test, she thought. And if she passed—and she simply
had
to!—she would belong to him forever.

She remained silent and did not move. Why was it taking so long? It had been much quicker with Peg. Although the chamber was cooled by sea breezes, Drianna began to perspire; droplets of sweat trickled down her back, itching terribly, but she didn’t dare to scratch. A minute more and she was close to fainting.

Then he lifted his hands, and Drianna cracked open her eyes. Brand didn’t have to say a word; the look on his face as he drew away from her said it all. It was a look not of bleakness or despair, but of… nothing. His face bore no emotion at all.

“I see nothing, Drianna.”

Suddenly, Drianna was grateful she’d not eaten that morning; sour bile crept up to the back of her throat. “No, look again! You must have done it wrong… you must have overlooked something!”

“I am not mistaken.” His voice was cold, and there was a hint of warning in it; a warning not to question his abilities again.

“I suspected this,” he went on, rising to his feet. “God has seen fit to elevate me, but not to grant you power. You are not worthy to be my wife; He has decreed it, and we must live by His will.”

He turned his back to her and went to retrieve a clean shirt from his wardrobe. “You may stay here in the palace, of course. Provided we find some work for you to do. I’ll speak to Tullis about it. Perhaps the cook can use another hand.”

Drianna blinked disbelievingly. Cook?
Work?
Now she knew he was mad…

“But I thought I was coming to Caithe with you.”

Brand quashed the notion with a curt shake of his head. “I need trained wizards at my side, Drianna. You would be of no use to me.” He tossed the shirt over his head and turned to go.

“No, don’t go—not like this!” She sprang from the bed and grabbed hold of his wrist with desperate strength.

“I have more important matters to attend to.” His voice remained steady and indifferent. “I have a kingdom to secure. Couric and the others have been heralding my arrival for months. It’s time I fulfilled their prophecies.”

He peeled her fingers from his wrist as if removing brambles from his shirt and swept out of the chamber.

“Brand, please!” She stumbled to the threshold after him, gripping the doorjamb for balance, the chamber a ship pitching in rough waters. “Come back!”

He didn’t even slow his stride as he rounded the corner and vanished.

Drianna staggered backward dizzy with shock; he had been cut from her life like a severed limb, and she was fast bleeding to death.

Alone in the spacious chamber, Drianna crumpled into a miserable heap on the floor. Hot tears scalded her cheeks and left ugly dark spots on her pale blue skirts. Eight years at his side, eight years in his bed, and she was dismissed as perfunctorily as an incompetent scullery maid! With a few spoken words, Brand had plunged her back to the depths from which he had raised her; a fish too small and insignificant to bother saving for one’s meal. And someone like Peg—a common drudge!—had the chance to take her place at his side.

In less time than it had taken to choose her dress that morning, her entire world had burned to ashes. She had been summarily rejected—by Brand as well as God, who had refused to gift her with magic—and now there was nothing left. She could never remain on Sare; after such humiliation, she could not bear to face another soul in this palace. And if she could not be mistress of this place, then she would not be anything at all.

The inside of her eyelids felt coated with sand as she wiped away her tears and rushed from the chamber, ignoring the politely unseeing eyes of the guardsmen in the corridor. She was going to Caithe whether the Sage liked it or not.

And if he did not want her at his side, then she would find someone else who did.

“You’ve almost got it,” Athaya said, keeping her voice and unobtrusive so as not to break the young man’s concentration. She stood directly behind him in the sun-mottled clearing, lightly supporting his elbows with her hands. “Keep the flow of power steady or you might lose control.”

Focusing fiercely on his task, Girard struggled to balance the two turbulent jets of green fire streaming from his hands, looking as if he clutched a pair of blazing snakes and was trying to keep them from curling back to bite him. The deadly fire flowed less freely from his left hand—as a permanent reminder of how serious the king’s Tribunal was about eradicating wizardry in Caithe. Girard’s maimed left limb bore five ugly stumps instead of the once-agile fingers of a carpenter. It took great effort for him to direct more power through his left hand while curbing the flow to his right, and fat beads of sweat formed on his brow as he strove to keep the coils in balance.

“That’s good,” Athaya whispered, feeling the heat of his efforts against her own skin as well. “Now make the coils do your bidding. Remember that you control them, not the reverse.” Silently, she hoped he would heed that counsel better than she once had; fortunately for him, Girard didn’t have to contend with the same disruptive memories as those that haunted her own thoughts day after day.

Girard nodded absently and began to weave the twin strands of fire around the base of a large iron cauldron, gradually channeling more power through each strand until the water in the cauldron began to steam softly, raising a gentle cloud of mist.

“Not too much,” she cautioned him when she saw the water begin to bubble at the edges. “There… that’s it. Now try and hold that level steady for a few minutes.”

Still supporting his elbows, Athaya gazed past Girard’s shoulder at the fiery dragons he wielded, slipping into a light trance at the hypnotic, circular movement of the coils. Her eyelids half-closed, she felt herself drifting back to another place and time. No longer did she stand in the deep serenity of the Forest of Else, but in the king’s sumptuous audience chamber at Delfar Castle; no longer was she a highly trained magician passing on her craft to those newly come to their power, but a terrified girl of nineteen with no more knowledge of magic than she had of astrology or mathematics.

Like a recurring nightmare, the scene came back to her undiminished in clarity after nearly two years. She saw her father, Kelwyn, snared in the deadly ropes of fire that streamed wildly from her hands, the reckless coils burning cloth and flesh as they leeched the very life from Caithe’s beloved king. She heard the echo of his voice cry out for mercy as he writhed upon the floor, herself longing to grant it but not knowing how. But clearest of all she remembered his face, its regal features twisted in agony and his eyes desperate to know why she was assaulting him; asking through their growing fog of madness if she truly hated him that much and imploring her with his last shreds of sanity to stop. Begging her…
Athaya, no. Please, no!

She sucked in a startled gasp and swiftly jerked away from Girard, covering her eyes with trembling hands.

“Your Highness?” Girard hastily dispersed the fire coils, the crackling flames retreating into his fingertips like the misty tendrils of a vision sphere. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No. I—” She forced air into her lungs to steady herself and then let her arms fall slack to her sides. The memory had so much power, even now. “That spell killed my father.”

Girard paled noticeably. He had known, as all Caithans did, of Athaya’s role in King Kelwyn’s death, but was clearly unaware of the specifics. “I knew his death was some sort of accident,” he said, worriedly adjusting the fit of his spectacles, “but I didn’t realize it was the coils. I’m sorry.”

Athaya offered him a weak smile of reassurance. “It’s not your fault. I… don’t talk about it much.”

Suddenly weary, she sank to her knees in the tall grass cooled by the shade of the ancient bell tower that marked the center of the wizards’ camp. It would have been easier to have someone else teach that spell—someone like Master Tonia, who could treat the fire coils like any other hazardous spell without being troubled by past mistakes. But imparting to others the knowledge that she had not gained in time—knowledge that, unfathomable as it was to her, remained illegal under Caithan law—made Athaya feel that she was doing what she could to make up for that horrible blunder. At least no one who came to her camp for training would leave without the ability to control those deadly coils; they would never bear the crushing guilt that gnawed at her own heart like crows on carrion when she paused to think too long upon it.

Absently, Athaya plucked a stalk of grass and worked it between her fingers, quickly tinting the skin of her fingertips bright green. Much as she had loved him, she had been better able to accept Tyler’s death, grieve for him, and properly close that chapter of her life. He died to buy her a future, but the final blow came from Durek’s hand, not hers—and that made all the difference. When she fled Delfar Castle after her fatal struggle with Kelwyn, Tyler refused to reveal her hiding place to Durek, fully aware of the price he would pay for such loyalty. But Kelwyn had never been granted that choice; his mind already twisted from the borrowed magic souring within it, he had never comprehended why his daughter had attacked him; he never understood that she only sought to defend herself from his magical assault and that the fire coils were simply too strong for an untutored wizard to control.

Burdened by the weight of what she had done, Athaya had vowed to carry on her father’s work. She vowed that no other Lorngeld would harm someone they loved because they did not know how to use their powers. She vowed to outlaw absolution as surely as she had been outlawed in Caithe. But despite all that she had done to reach those goals—exhorting budding wizards to refuse absolution, establishing schools of magic, and bringing her homeland to the brink of civil war over the matter—Athaya remained forever haunted by the knowledge that, though his borrowed power would have killed him in time, and possibly in a far more grisly way, hers was the hand by which King Kelwyn ultimately fell. Accident or no, hers was the hand.