The Reluctant Mage

by Karen Miller

  Arlin felt himself lean closer. “Then there’s still time. While he’s flesh and blood he’s vulnerable. So how do we kill him? Can you do it, Rafel? Trapped in there, can you kill the bastard?”

  Another tear, and then another. Rafel shook his head. “No.”

  After months of seeing Morg behind those dark brown eyes it was so odd to see Asher’s son. Odder still to feel himself moved to an overwhelming pity.

  “You say there are some parts of him he’ll never retrieve,” he said roughly, because he had no desire to feel pain for Rafel’s pain. “Does that help us?”

  “Not enough,” said Rafel. “Arlin—he has so much power to summon. For him to lose a piece here, a piece there, it’s like us nicking a finger and losing a drop or two of blood. We’re not vanquished by that—and neither is he.”

  He could have smashed the chamber’s round window in his frustration. Or ploughed a fist into Rafel’s face, hoping the blow might hurt Morg. “I refuse to believe there is nothing we can do!”

  “I didn’t say there was nothing, Arlin,” Rafel whispered. “But it won’t be easy. There’s a price to be paid in blood and tears and terror. And I find it odd that you’d be willing to pay it.”

  “You think I’m lying?”

  “I think you could be.”

  “You think I care what you think!” he spat. “You stupid, ignorant Olken.”

  Rafel’s lips twisted into a smile. “And there’s the Arlin Garrick I know and don’t trust.”

  “You don’t have a choice, Rafel. You have to trust me.”

  “I know,” said Rafel, after a long silence. “Because I see who Morg really is. Worse. I feel it. And I’m doing my best to thwart him. But every time he feasts on his own essence he fastens another lock on my cage.”

  Arlin felt a stabbing fright. “You talk of thwarting him but it sounds like you’re giving up. Rafel, you can’t. Look at you. You’re talking to me and he doesn’t know. If you fight harder, if you try harder, surely—”

  Rafel’s eyes blazed. “I am fighting Morg as hard as I can! You don’t know, Arlin, you can’t imagine what—”

  And then his blazing eyes rolled back and he started to shudder. Frothy, blood-tinged spittle oozed over his lips as his fingers spasmed on the arms of the wooden chair.

  Arlin grabbed his wrists. “Rafel! Rafel! Can you hear me?”

  Don’t go. Don’t leave me here to face him on my own.

  “Rafel?” said Morg, and struck him hard across the face. “You dare to call for that Olken upstart? What a fool you are, Lord Garrick. What a puling, puking fool.”

  Head ringing from the blow, pain bursting and burning, Arlin dropped to the floor in a posture of absolute submission. “Forgive me, Master, I was only—”

  Morg surged to his feet. “You were only what, my little puppet? Seeking to free my greatest enemy’s son? Seeking to harm me? To betray me?”

  How close was he to death? Not so close, surely. Morg still needed him. Let me not be close to death.

  “Master, I came to you as you commanded but you were strangely silent,” he said, staring at Morg’s boots. “I waited and waited but you did not speak. I grew concerned. I called your name and still you did not answer. I thought you might be ill, I—”

  “You hoped I might be ill!” Morg shouted. “Am I a fool, Garrick? Do you imagine I think you serve me willingly?”

  Now he looked up—and that wasn’t Rafel’s face. Those weren’t Rafel’s eyes. Rafel was gone as though he’d never existed. Grief and fear and panic churned through him.

  I am alone, most likely for good. And now I stand at a crossroads. I can fight Morg by myself… or I can surrender and serve him.

  He tried to swallow, but his mouth was sucked dry. “Master, I don’t know what you think. You are the most powerful sorcerer born and I am a young, inexperienced mage, whose true birthright was stolen centuries ago.”

  Morg laughed. “Am I to believe you revere me?”

  “No, Master. I was raised to fear the sound of your name. You are the monster hiding beneath my childhood bed.”

  Silence. Then Morg bent low. “Little mage, little mage… what is it you want?”

  “Master—” Sickened, sweating, Arlin made himself meet Morg’s pitiless eyes. “I want to live.”

  A tiny tug of smile, then Morg straightened. “What else?”

  The trick is to distract him with a truth. To lead him onto different pathways so I won’t be forced to tell a lie.

  “Master,” he said, feeling the sweat soak through his shirt. “I grew up with the words ‘you cannot’ ringing in my ears. Every day the inferior Olken told me what I could and could not do with my power. But I believe I could be a great mage.”

  “And why would I desire a great mage around me?” said Morg, idly. “We Doranen are an ambitious breed. One taste of greatness feeds a ravenous appetite for more. Do I not know it? Was I not once you?”

  Was Rafel listening to this? And if he was, what was he thinking? “You flatter me, Master. I admit ambition, but I confess my limitations. I am Arlin Garrick. I am not Morgan Danfey.”

  Morg’s eyes narrowed. “You do not answer my question.”

  “I fear to answer it, Master,” he said, lowering his gaze. “I have seen what happens when you’re displeased.”

  Again, Morg bent low. Arlin flinched as the sorcerer took his face between Rafel’s strong, peasant fingers, tightening his grip to the point of sharp pain.

  “Little mage, you have never seen me displeased.”

  Morg’s dark power beat through him, waking pain and rousing fear. “Master, you need me.”

  The sorcerer flung him away so hard he struck the floor with his face.

  “Need you? Do not flatter yourself, Lord Garrick.”

  Dazed, blood from a split eyebrow smearing his vision scarlet, Arlin made no attempt to protect himself. “I’m not. You need me. You are Morg… but not completely. You’re still sundered. Still searching. Master, until you are whole you need a mage you can trust.”

  “And that mage is you?” Morg laughed. “Arlin—”

  “Ask Rafel,” he said, and cautiously sat up. “If he’s still in there. If he’s still alive. Ask him what kind of mage I am. What kind of man. He hates me, and with good reason. I am no friend of his. I never was. I never will be.”

  Truth piled upon truth. No lie for Morg to smell.

  Morg turned away and began to pace the chamber. “You think with these touching declarations I’ll free you from compulsion? You think I’ll share my power with you?”

  “Of course not, Master,” he said quickly. “You would never be so reckless.”

  “Then what do you think?”

  “I think—I hope—that you will ungeld me. I have some small power, Master. Let me use it to serve you. Let me use it. I never have. Not properly. I have never been a true Doranen.”

  Morg turned back. “And you ache for it. You burn for it. You yearn to be set free, to break the chains others have laid upon you. Is that it?”

  “Yes,” he whispered. Because it was true. He wanted his birthright as he wanted air to breathe. All his life he’d been trammelled by Olken like Asher, and by treacherous, cowardly Doranen who believed the lie that their own people were to be controlled and feared. “Yes, Master. I ache. I burn.”

  Morg smiled. It was terrible. “You will if you betray me, Lord Garrick. You will ache and burn unto the end of time.”

  The threat—the promise—nearly loosened his bowels. “Master, I have told you the truth. Your need of me is already proven. Who else have you trusted to gather your sundered pieces and guide them home? No-one. There is no-one else you can trust. But I can be so much more than—than a shepherd. Let me show you. Let me help you rebuild everything that was lost when Asher of Restharven sought to end your life. Let me help you rebuild our homeland, Dorana. She was a shining jewel once. Let her shine again. I beg you.”

  A warm silence. Then Morg smiled again. “Rafel’s
weeping,” he whispered. “Oh… his tears. His tears.”

  Arlin shrugged. “Let him weep. What does the pain of an Olken matter?”

  “Interesting,” said Morg. His smile faded. “I could almost believe you hate Asher’s son as I hate the son’s father.”

  “Believe it,” he said, brutal. “Master, believe I hate them both. Am I not orphaned because of them? Am I not small?”

  “What you are, Arlin, remains to be seen,” said Morg. “What you might be? Come. You can show that to me now.”

  Morg swept from the chamber and Arlin, scrambling, followed him. Down the creaking staircases, along the corridors, through the mansion’s rear scullery door and out to the back of the grand old house where Fernel Pintte and the idiot stood guard over a saddled horse.

  One look at Morg and the shambling half-wit bolted. Morg laughed and made no attempt to stop him. That left Pintte, whose knees buckled with fear.

  “Master,” he croaked. An acrid whiff of urine. He’d pissed himself.

  Incurious, their thick, horny hides shining brindled in the sun, the dravas guarding the scullery door and every ground floor window watched as Morg snapped his fingers and summoned a dagger from somewhere. Its blade was long and thin, a shining promise of death.

  “Take it, Arlin,” said the sorcerer, holding out the knife. “And kill Fernel Pintte.”

  The horse’s reins dropped from Pintte’s clumsy fingers. Unnerved by the dravas, by the roil of power in the air, the danger, the animal tried to bolt. Morg halted it with a word.

  “Lord Garrick?”

  Arlin closed his own fingers about the dagger’s hilt. There was nothing arcane in the weapon. Iron and bone and a dragon’s-tear gem. Fernel Pintte’s death was to be a commonplace butchery.

  If I close my eyes, will I hear Rafel weeping?

  “Arlin…”

  And that was Pintte, small and dismayed. Ignoring the Olken, he turned to Morg. “Why?”

  Morg’s eyebrow lifted. “Does it matter?”

  “It does.”

  “For what reason?” said the sorcerer, considering him closely. “He’s Olken. You hate him.”

  “Master—” He breathed out a slow sigh. “It matters because it matters to you.”

  “Ah.” Smiling so sweetly, Morg reached out his hand. “Arlin, I believe you begin to understand.”

  He let himself flinch at the sorcerer’s touch, because not to flinch would rouse instant suspicion. But then, as Morg’s palm pressed to his cheek, Arlin waited—and waited—then let himself lean into the caress.

  Believe me. Believe me. I understand too well.

  “Arlin,” said Fernel Pintte. “You can’t—you’re not—” He was heaving for air, great shuddering gasps. “You’re an arrogant little shit, Arlin, but you’re not a murderer!”

  Morg withdrew his caressing palm. “You want to know why? Because jewels must be paid for, Lord Garrick. Trust must be earned. To be great one must do great things. Make great sacrifices. Purge every impulse towards humanity. With your eyes fixed upon the mud, however can you hope to see the stars?”

  Arlin looked at the dagger loosely clasped in his hand.

  Fernel Pintte was never going to survive this. Since he crossed the mountains he has been living on borrowed time. And if he was always going to die, does it really matter how?

  He knew the answer, of course. But if one death could prevent thousands… and besides, it was Pintte.

  “Arlin?” said Morg, so gentle. “Show me how truthful you are. Show me how faithful. Show me the face you show no-one else and then, perhaps, I will believe you.”

  The Mayor of Dorana tried to run, but like the saddled horse he was halted with a word. Halted—but not silenced. He could beg. He could weep.

  Show me the face you show no-one else.

  He could kill Pintte swiftly. Push the dagger through his throat or his heart and quickly end the miserable little man’s existence. But Morg was watching, and what he wanted wasn’t mercy.

  If I fail this test the known world loses.

  “No,” Pintte whispered. “No, please, no.”

  Arlin clenched his jaw. All his life he’d been tested. And if he were found wanting, punishment came swift and sure. Because he was a Garrick, and no Garrick could fail.

  How well did you teach me, Father? I think we’re about to find out.

  The dagger’s sharp blade slid without resistance through the flesh of Pintte’s ageing belly and sank to its hilt against the Olken’s ragged shirt. When he pulled it out, bright blood eagerly followed.

  Pintte stared at the blood in silent shock.

  He stabbed the Olken again, this time through the fragile cage of his ribs. Pintte released a bubbling cry. Flecks of red appeared on his lips. Without Morg’s holding spell he would have fallen.

  “You pig,” the Olken whispered. A pulse was beating frantically in his throat. “You stinking Doranen. You magespawn offal. You—”

  He plunged the dagger back into Pintte’s belly. Twisted it this time, to spill the contents of his gut.

  Pintte squealed.

  Arlin watched as the Olken spat blood and bled shit, aware of a distant and cool curiosity. Where was the grief? Where was the revulsion? Where was the shocking pain, that he could do this to a man?

  Show me the face you show no-one else.

  From the cradle he’d been taught to revile the Olken. That was a lesson he’d learned eagerly, with little prompting. This puny race, these pretend mages, these keepers of secrets who presumed to judge their betters and passed laws to limit greatness because greatness was beyond them.

  I hate them. I hate them all.

  A hand on his shoulder. A soft breath in his ear. “I see you now, Arlin. That’s enough. You can end him.”

  He pushed the blade into Pintte’s heart, and stepped back, and watched him die.

  Morg snapped his fingers. Pintte dropped to the ground.

  “I have found two more of my lost pieces, Lord Garrick. They travel here from Brantone. You’ll find them some six hours hence, upon The Chilling Way. And when you return we will talk. Keep the dagger. It might come in useful.”

  “Master,” he said. He had no way to safely wear it.

  Morg laughed and snapped his fingers a second time. Held out the dagger’s leather sheath and a belt to hold it. Bending, Arlin wiped the dagger’s blade clean on the dead Olken’s sleeve, then sheathed it and belted it round his hips. As he reached his horse, the sorcerer released it. The animal tossed its head, eyes rolling at the stink of fresh blood. Snatching at the reins, he shoved his foot into the stirrup and swung himself up and into the saddle. How he missed his own stallion, a beast of superior bloodlines and beauty. This thing was nothing more than a nag.

  Silently summoned, his dravas escort appeared in the open space between the mansion and the empty stables. Always the same beasts, created by Morg to be swift and cunning, light on their feet. Tireless. Able to keep up with a cantering horse and run down a fleeing miscreant.

  Morg’s gaze lingered on them, proud and loving. And then he frowned. “Lord Garrick? You tarry. Is there a problem?”

  “No, Master,” he said quickly. A kick in the flanks and a tug on the reins had his slug horse shifting. The dravas stepped aside to let him pass. But as he rode between them he heard a garbled cry. Turning in his saddle he saw the shambling idiot Goose creep out of the stables’ shadows towards the punctured body on the ground. Gobbling noises in his throat. Mangled words. The pathetic creature was trying to talk.

  Not all his wits lost then. Just most of them. A pity Morg didn’t test me on him. It would’ve been a mercy and the result would be the same.

  Wailing with grief, Rafel’s ruined friend collapsed to the ground beside dead Fernel Pintte. Gathering the cooling corpse into his arms he rocked the Olken, blubbering like a child. A spitting sound of impatience and Morg raised his arm. Spread his fingers. Opened his mouth to curse and rid the world of the half-wit.

  Wat
ching, Arlin saw something flicker over the sorcerer’s face. Saw a ripple of muscle beneath his temper-flushed skin and felt a swift, uneasy churning of power. Morg’s eyes widened. His breath quickened. His spread fingers spasmed, then clenched into a fist. Still as stone he stood there… he stood there… and Goose Martin lived.

  Rafel.

  Slowly, Morg lowered his outstretched hand. A shifting behind his shadowed eyes. Another flicker across his emptied face.

  Rafel’s brief ascendency was over.

  Arlin kicked his horse into a bounding leap and shot off towards the mansion’s carriageway. The dravas pounded after him, compelled to follow in his wake.

  Ruined Elvado was laid out in a circle, with four main thoroughfares leading from its heart to Dorana’s four neighbouring borders. The Winding Way pointed towards Trindek. The Swift Way led to Feen. To reach Manemli a man rode The Narrow Way, and took The Chilling Way to Brantone. The old roads and the old lands were laid out on a map in the mansion. Arlin had studied it carefully but learned nothing of Dorana beyond how not to get lost.

  The Chilling Way was tree-lined, its broad grey bricks weathered with age. Keeping his inferior horse to a steady, jarring jog, the dravas clopping and padding and clicking behind him, he closed his eyes and tried not to think of Fernel Pintte. Better to think of Goose Martin and how Rafel had saved him.

  I’m not alone. I’m not alone.

  Up ahead, approaching, was an entire troop of dravas. They were coming back from a raid—most likely into Brantone, but maybe further, into Ranoush. They brought with them more captives, fodder for Morg to turn into more beasts. An army of them, he was creating. He needed dravas to retake the lands around Dorana, that he’d ruled once before and was determined to rule again.

  Lands he thinks I want to rule with him. Because I let him think it. Because I made him believe it.

  The soft surrender of Pintte’s belly as the dagger’s blade thudded home…

  Show me the face you show no-one else.

  And so he did. He’d had to. There’d been no other way. But in showing Morg that hidden face he’d also shown it to himself.

  Did I know? Is that truly me? Or is it someone else?