The Reluctant Mage

by Karen Miller

  Water leapt and bubbled at the centre of the ornamental pool, splashing the festive mosaics and painting the autumn air with rainbows. The horses pricked their ears and tossed their heads, nostrils flaring. Behind them the dravas snuffled and stamped.

  Ridiculously pleased with himself, Arlin watched the gushing fountain. Then he glanced at Morg. “What’s next?”

  “You see that?” said the sorcerer, pointing to a cracked and faded tower, with gaping holes in its walls, smashed windows, buckled roof. “That was the most important, the most revered place in all of Dorana. The Hall of Knowledge, where the finest, brightest, greatest mages of the time gathered to share their understanding of magework. So much fierce brilliance there, Arlin. You would have wept to see it. I wept. In that Hall of Knowledge we knew magic was all.”

  Morg’s face was alight with memory and passion. Six centuries behind him, and he hadn’t forgotten. It might have been yesterday that he last walked through the tower.

  “The first time ever I saw Barl, it was in the Hall of Knowledge,” he said softly. And then his face convulsed with hatred. “The bitch. The slut. The treacherous whore.”

  His attentive dravas shifted on their hooves and feet, made uneasy by the venom in his voice. Their scaly tails whipped side to side as claws and talons clicked the cobbles.

  “Be still!” Morg commanded, and the dravas turned statue.

  Arlin shifted in his saddle to take in the rest of the battered buildings surrounding the ornamental pool. None was as tall as the Hall of Knowledge, but each one hinted at past glory, showing the world now only a dilapidated grandeur.

  “The Hall is mine,” said Morg. “You shall not touch it. You, Arlin, will take half the dravas and make your way to Elvado’s outskirts. They’ll keep you safe while you begin your working there.”

  Keep him under guard, more like. “Master.”

  Morg was smiling again. “Have no fear of disappointing me, Arlin. The magic you need for this is in you. Why else did I task you to all that learning in the library? Trust yourself, my little mage. We’ll meet here by your beautiful pool at the end of the day.”

  They’d brought no food with them. No water. And heavy mageworking placed great demands on a mage.

  “Arlin,” said Morg, sighing. “Don’t make me regret giving you this chance to serve me. Did you or did you not learn the spells of translocation?”

  He felt his face heat, waking the pain in his split cheekbone. It was frightening, made him ill, the way Morg could read him with no more effort than it would take to read a child’s storybook.

  He bowed. “Master. Of course.” Because his father had beaten him if ever he forgot a spell, once read.

  “Of course,” said Morg, sneering. “But be sure to leave enough food in the mansion’s larder for our dinner.” Turning to the dravas, he snapped his fingers and barked a sharp command. Five of them stepped forward. “Go with Lord Garrick. Guard him with your lives.”

  “Master,” said Arlin, bowing again, and rode away from the pool and the sorcerer, the dravas in his wake.

  The street he chose to follow to Elvado’s edge was, like so many of its streets, pitted and decaying with age and weather. Smiling, he repaired it and then, liking the newly smooth thoroughfare so much, allowed himself to be sidetracked from the task Morg had given him and repaired every crumbled street he could find.

  Straightaway Elvado took on a different feel.

  But soon enough the city’s emptiness began to disturb him. Thousands of people had lived here once, yet he couldn’t see so much as a finger bone remaining. No sign at all that any Doranen had lived here. Birds’ nests he saw, yes. Small bones of birds and rats and other feral creatures that had made their homes in the city’s abandoned buildings. And yes, he felt the lingering remnants of Doranen magic soaked deep in the earth, the rasp and tang of angry, violent incantations.

  But no people.

  Although, if he could feel their magic, six centuries after the city’s destruction, the thought of what it had been like in Elvado at the height of the mage war…

  Enough playing with streets, fool. There’s a city to remake.

  His long-dead ancestors had favoured tall, airy buildings. A lightness in their construction spoke of their lightness of thought. The bright colours Barl and her refugees had taken with them into Lur were here, faded but discernible. Greens and yellows and pinks and blues—for one blinding, unexpected moment he was homesick for Lur.

  You really are a fool, aren’t you? It’s probably broken to pieces by now, ripped apart and flooded and drowned. Don’t think of it. You’ll never set foot there again.

  The dravas were watching him with their once-human eyes, incuriously waiting. If he tried to run, they’d run him down.

  A shiver in the back of his mind turned his head towards the city’s centre. Morg was mageworking. He’d best follow the sorcerer’s lead. After all, he was Lord Arlin Garrick, Morg’s eager right hand.

  Or so Morg believes. Because he believes me—and Rafel, of course.

  Rafel. He’s howling. Surely, though, the Olken’s pain and despair had been an act.

  Surely he knows I was only pretending. Because if he believed me…

  Then he might just—give up. But Rafel couldn’t. He couldn’t. Not when the life of every Olken born depended on him.

  He couldn’t give up. Could he?

  He didn’t know. Not for certain. He just had to hope that deep in his prison, in his cage of familiar flesh and bone, Rafel was working to defeat the sorcerer.

  Just as I am, caged out here in the world.

  Three weeks and four days it took them to make Elvado beautiful again.

  By the end of the city’s working Arlin was so exhausted he could barely sit upright on his horse, or even stay in the saddle. Racked with pains throughout his body, skewered by headaches and struggling to keep food in his belly, he stood at Elvado’s heart, by the ornamental pool with its bubbling fountain, and tried not to collapse in a heap at Morg’s feet.

  If the long days of mageworking had overtaxed the sorcerer, it didn’t show in his face. If anything he seemed invigorated. Inspired by what they’d wrought. The Hall of Knowledge was magnificent now, a soaring dedication to everything right and true in magic.

  All it needed now was mages to bring it alive.

  “Oh, I don’t think so, Arlin,” said Morg, lazily. Reading him again. Beneath the casual carelessness, a newly honed edge. “For now, I think two mages are sufficient. But do you know what we are lacking?”

  He was far too weary for playing games. “No. What?”

  “Subjects. Supplicants. Servants.” Morg smiled. “Slaves. The time has come, Lord Garrick, to remind the world of who I am.”

  He clapped his hands once. Echoes bounded and rebounded around the beautiful, mageworked buildings. Heartbeats later the air shivered, and shimmered, and out of it stepped a pack of dravas herding seven naked, captured men.

  Arlin swallowed his shock. That was the same kind of mageworking Rafel had used to send those three useless Olken Councillors back home from the blighted lands beyond the mountains. But where Asher’s son had needed sigils and words, Morg needed only to think his desire and it came to pass.

  So much for hoping his lack of completion might cripple him.

  The dravas shoved and bullied the captives into a straight line on the polished granite of Elvado’s central court. Numb with shock and terror the men didn’t resist or utter a sound. All seven were young. Tall. Healthy and well-made. Like a buyer at a livestock market, Morg inspected them one by one, poking their muscles, flattening his hands to their faces. Grasping their wrists and testing the mettle of their bones.

  When he was finished he nodded. “They’ll do.”

  Arlin frowned. These past weeks of mageworking had seen a kind of rapport build between himself and the sorcerer. He’d pleased Morg, he knew that much, with the quality of his work. With his instant compliance. With his deference and constant submi
ssion to every passing whim. It meant he now had a certain, narrow freedom.

  “Do for what, Master?”

  “My purpose, Lord Garrick,” said Morg, not looking at him. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”

  “Master,” he said, and took a step back.

  They were now well into the tail-end of autumn. The cold afternoon air thickened, almost to a fog. Curls of mist rose off the ornamental pool. Power stirred, and the mist stirred with it. Morg stood in front of the first captive and touched a fingertip between the man’s terrified eyes.

  “Iringa.”

  The man’s eyes rolled back in his head.

  Morg snapped his fingers, and the frightened man changed. Became a beast with a human face and an almost human body. His skin darkened and thickened ’til it looked like soft saddle leather. His arms lengthened, lost their fingers, turned to talons instead, and great flaps of skin like bat-wings joined his upper arms to his ribs. His mouth widened, his teeth jutting and sharpening themselves into tusks.

  Again, Morg nodded. “And that will do.”

  Silent, his belly churning—though he should be used to it by now—Arlin watched the other six men transform. Listened as Morg gave each new-made winged beast a different word. Trindek. Feen. Manemli. Ranoush. Vharne. Brantone.

  Brantone. A name he recognised. So these were messengers, were they? Harbingers of doom.

  The transmutation complete, Morg laughed. “Delightful. You know your purpose?”

  The beasts nodded, as one man. “Master,” they replied, a sibilant chorus.

  “Then see my wishes carried out. Return to me when you are done.”

  “Master,” they said again, their voices slushy around the curving tusks.

  Morg snapped his fingers a second time and the creatures took to the air in a leathery flapping of wings. Hideous. Arlin watched them out of sight, and when at last they were disappeared lowered his gaze to find Morg watching him.

  “The beasting distresses you,” the sorcerer said, curious.

  There was no point in lying. “Yes.”

  “And yet you’ve promised Rafel nothing but beasting for his kind.”

  He made himself smile. “For the Olken, Master, I’m prepared to stifle my dismay.”

  And that made Morg laugh, as he was almost certain it would. “Come, my little lord,” said the sorcerer. “The wheel is set in motion, but there is yet much work to do.”

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Because he’d been given charge of the king’s seat, Tavin couldn’t ride out to meet the king’s son and his companions as they crossed into the Vale from wider Vharne. But with word sent ahead, being told they were coming, he sent ten barracks men to meet them for an escort. Such a clatter they made, riding back to the castle.

  Tavin was on his feet and waiting for them in the Hall, where lamps and beeswax tapers were lit and fat logs burned in the fireplace. Shadows danced up the walls, hinting at darkness.

  Seeing him after his long weeks in the rough, after all that he’d seen and done there, Ewen was hard-pressed not to weep. Especially when the swordmaster’s broad, relieved smile faded as he counted only three men walking into the Hall, stubbled, filthy and stinking.

  Clovis closed the doors behind them.

  “Highness,” said the swordmaster, strangely formal, a terrible fear dawning in his eyes. “The king?”

  Ewen halted, Tavin’s broken, blood-sated longsword hanging heavy at his side and burdened saddle-bags dragging down his left shoulder.

  “I didn’t find him, Swordmaster,” he said, his voice a hoarse rasp. “And Lenyd and Refyn and Duff and Hob died searching, they did. Lenyd’s brothers are dead too, they are, and nine more barracks men.”

  Tavin swallowed. “My barracks Dirk? Ryne?”

  He made himself meet Tavin’s stare. “Vanished, like the king. Three barracks men gone with them.”

  “No sign of Murdo?” Tavin’s fingers opened and closed at his sides. “You’re sure?”

  No, Tav. I’m guessing.

  “Searched for five days we did, Swordmaster,” said Bryn, stepping forward. “Right to the border. Tracked the rough on our hands and knees. Not a hair of the king or your men to be found, there wasn’t.”

  Tavin was frowning. “The dogs caught no scent?”

  “The dogs died,” said Ewen. And Noyce had burned their ruined bodies, weeping. “Tavin—”

  He wasn’t listening. “You say all three of my barracks men I picked for you perished, Ewen? And your cousin?”

  Ewen flinched. Disappointed, old man? Not like I am, you’re not. “Tavin… there were beasts.”

  And he heard that, Tavin did.

  “Beasts?” the swordmaster echoed. He sat sudden in the king’s seat. “So it’s right, I was. Spirit save us.”

  “Two beasts, there were. The prince slew them both,” said Noyce, his voice cracking. He wasn’t a young man any more, and it showed. “Ewen did the king and Vharne proud.”

  “I slew one, Iain,” he said sharply. “The other beast Ivyn killed mostly.” Leaving Tavin aside for the moment, he looked at the two men who’d survived with him. “I’ve words to share with the swordmaster. Get to the barracks bath house, if you like. Shyvie and his brats will take good care of you, they will. After you’re clean you’re welcome to a meal in the castle. Only one caution—you won’t speak of what happened beyond the Vale. Not ’til I give you leave.”

  Bryn and Noyce exchanged glances. Friends, they’d made of each other, over these long weeks. Then Bryn shuffled his feet. “Highness, it’s home for me without the bath house or the meal. My wife’ll skin me if I don’t.”

  “Your choice,” he said, dredging up a smile. “I’ll not argue it. Iain?”

  “I’ll take both gladly,” said Noyce. “It’s only my kennel boy at home.” His lined face twisted. “And my dogs.”

  “Then go,” he said. “And take my love with you.”

  They nodded, not quite a bow, and left the Hall together. Silence after the doors closed. Tears in Tavin’s eyes.

  “Boy—” he said harshly. “Ewen—”

  Bones and muscles aching, the half-healed, rubbed-raw beast marks in his flesh smarting, Ewen slid the saddle-bags off his shoulder and let them thud to the floor. Then he unbelted Blood-drinker in its scabbard and held it out.

  “The blade snapped, Tavin. I broke your sword.”

  “Fuck the sword,” said Tavin, and leapt up, and held him.

  Endless days of desperate riding. Not a night’s sleep that he didn’t dream of those beasts. Of Lenyd. Of Padrig, and Vharne’s lost king. Ruined Blood-drinker slipped from his fingers.

  Fuck the sword. Fuck all of it.

  “I knew you’d ride back to the Vale, boy,” Tavin said, a fierce whisper. “I knew you wouldn’t leave me stranded in this Hall, I did.” His grip convulsed tighter, then he let go and stepped back, glowering. “Ewen, I could blade your arse, I could! Two pigeons you send me? Boy, you took five!”

  “Lost the packhorse,” he said, biting his lip. “The pigeons were still on it.”

  Tavin pulled a chair out from the table and sat. “Tell me all of it.”

  Slowly pacing, Ewen unfolded the past weeks for him. By the time he’d reached the part where the beasts attacked, and Lenyd died, and the three barracks men, he was shivering in the warm chamber and Tavin was ashen-faced. And after that…

  “We couldn’t bring any of the dead home for burning,” he said, still hurting for it. “So we burned them where they fell.” He looked at the saddle-bags. “And I carried back enough of their ashes for their death jars, and their pits. Brought their blades, too. Taken into the barracks, they are. I’ll sort my cousins’ swords from the barracks men’s later. My aunt will want them with the ashes, she will.”

  “That’s a proper thing you did, son,” said Tavin, his own gaze heavy on the saddle-bags.

  He rubbed his stinging eyes. “Tav, I wish I’d liked him better. Lenyd. I wish I�
��d liked his brothers better too, but I didn’t. It’s more honest grief I’ve got for Refyn and Duff and Hob. But they were blood, my cousins. How is that proper?”

  “It’s not,” said Tav, shrugging. “But you feel what you feel. Let it go. Bigger troubles, we’ve got.”

  And that’s true, that is. Much bigger.

  Crouching, he unlaced the saddle-bags from each other, hefted one to the Hall’s table and upended it in front of Tavin. Severed horns and talons and smashed tusks tumbled out.

  “Tried to burn the beasts too, we did,” he said, revolted. “But the flames wouldn’t take them. So we buried them shallow and covered them with rocks. It’s desolate country out there, but I didn’t want the chance of a scout or a hunter stumbling on them. Even in the rough that’s word to spread fast, it is.”

  Tavin kept his hands to himself, but his eyes feasted on the beast remains and his face darkened with dreadful memories.

  Crouching again, Ewen picked up discarded Blood-drinker in its scabbard. Held it for a moment, feeling an ache in his arm, reliving the desperation and the terror. Then he set the sword gently on the table beside the horns, tusks and talons.

  “I’m sorry, Tav. I wanted to bring both pieces back to you, I did, but—” He shook his head. “There wasn’t a sword could cut open the beast that stole half your blade.”

  Tavin’s fingertips lightly touched Blood-drinker’s hilt. “Swordsmith who made this, he’s long years dead. Not another man in Vharne ever matched Nilym in forging a blade. Belonged to my grandfather’s father, this sword. Handed down, son to son.” He glanced up. “Always meant it for you, I did. Knew my whole life there’d be no son from my loins.”

  “Spirit save me,” Ewen muttered. “Making it worse, you are. Tav, I broke it.”

  Tavin’s fist thumped the table. “Boy, you and Blood-drinker, you slew two beasts! If a blade’s got to die, what better death is there?”

  And then both his fists thumped the table and he was on his feet, raging.

  “We were fools, we were, Ewen! Me and Murdo, and Ewen the Elder, we were fools. Believing an evil that could spawn beasts would melt like ice in summertime? Babby-brained, that was. I told you at the pit, I did. Haius blossom. And I should’ve remembered it years ago. The north never died, it only slept, and now it’s woken.”