The Reluctant Mage

by Karen Miller

  Too late, she remembered he was the king’s man.

  “Ewen, I’m sorry,” she said, almost stammering. “I didn’t want to kill those poor women, I swear, but—”

  His finger pressed against her lips. “Hush.”

  Heart pounding, she stared at him. Was he angry? Was she a murderer? His face was shadowed again. She couldn’t tell.

  “They truly were all women, those wanderers?” His voice was cold enough to freeze fresh milk. “Not telling me you killed them, was that the only lie you told?”

  She jerked her head aside. “I never lied. I just didn’t tell you how they perished.” Bewildered, she stared at him. “Ewen, what’s wrong? Why does it matter if they were—”

  He turned from her, one hand pressed across his eyes. “Get some sleep, girl,” he muttered. “Deenie. Rotten you’ll be, tomorrow, if you don’t sleep tonight.”

  She watched him retreat to his campfire, aching for him. Knowing that something was terribly wrong, but with no idea how to ease his grief.

  “And what was that about?” said Charis, poking her nose out of her sleep-sack.

  Deenie extinguished her little glimlight and slid back into her own sack. “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

  “Sink it,” said Charis. Even in the near-darkness it was easy to tell she was scowling. “I was right. You’ve gone giddycakes over him.”

  She felt herself blush. “No, I haven’t.”

  “Giddycakes,” Charis repeated, slumskumbledy. “Over a man with red hair and cat’s eyes who calls us girls to make us stroppy—and that’s all we know of him.”

  “That’s not true. We know he’s brave. We know his men love him, and he loves them. We know his king trusts him to speak for his people. And Charis—”

  “You dreamed him,” Charis groaned. “I know. I just wish…”

  Deenie curled into a ball. “That I’d dream Rafel. Believe me, Charis. So do I.”

  Rafel floats in darkness, chained like a dog. Morg is no fool. He remembers Conroyd Jarralt. He remembers how the trapped Doranen helped bring about his temporary demise. And so this captive is kept close-confined. Confident in his mastery, in the punishment he’s meted, Morg chains Rafel deep and walks away, content.

  Abandoned, discarded, Rafel nurtures the gossamer thread connecting his wounded soul to his sister.

  And there she is.

  “Deenie,” he whispers. “Deenie. It’s me.”

  She can’t hear him. He’s too far away. Even so, he can feel her. And what he feels is a fright to him. Deenie’s been changed. And in those changes he can sense a new danger, to her… and to Morg.

  If the sorcerer senses it he’ll hunt her. His sister will die.

  He’s chained like a dog, but a chained dog can still bark. And if the murderer walks too close, a chained dog can bite.

  Deep in the darkness, Rafel hears himself laugh. But softly, so his tormentor won’t know. Then he bends his mind to the thought of revenge and a way to keep his sister hidden from Morg.

  He’s a mage. He’s Asher’s son. He can do this. He must.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Aday and a half later, Ewen and his barracks men found the spirit path that would guide them safely through what remained of Vharne’s northern rough. And that Charis girl, again, piggybacked with Robb, was the first to feel it, even before Deenie.

  “Stop!” she said loudly, her voice joggled by the trotting. “Captain Noddyhead! Stop!”

  Ewen gritted his teeth. Captain Noddyhead. He ached that she wasn’t one of his barracks men, that he couldn’t break a sword-blade across her arse. Captain Noddyhead. Beautiful or not, Charis Orrick was a scold.

  Call me Noddyhead, would she, if she knew I wear Vharne’s crown?

  Most like. Most like she’d shrug and call him King Noddyhead because she was just that kind of woman, she was.

  Robb rode a stone’s throw from his left hand, so he only had to turn his head. “Told you to pee before we rode on from the last stop, I did, girl,” he advised Deenie’s scolding, disrespectful friend. “Can’t be stopping to pee every half a league.”

  “Ewen,” said Deenie over his shoulder, as Robb snickered appreciatively into his fuzzy, new-grown beard. “I don’t think she needs to—”

  “Peeing?” shouted Charis. “Who said anything about peeing? Your precious spirit path’s hereabouts, in case you’re still interested.”

  “Deenie?” he said, because he trusted her mage-sense more than her friend’s. Charis wasn’t the one who killed beasts with a word.

  He felt her arms tense around his waist. Heard her breathe out, a lot like a sigh. “You’d best stop,” she said. “So I can concentrate.”

  Raising a clenched fist, he looked left and right at his barracks men. “Hold!”

  The barracks horses knew that command, and they dropped from jog to halt in a stride. Charis squeaked and bounced; she was no horseman. And then she slid backwards off Robb’s horse, catching hold of its tail for balance as her feet hit the uneven ground.

  Robb gave him a barracks look. Why me?

  His answer was a swift, wry smile. Then he looked behind him at Deenie. “Getting down, are you?”

  “Yes,” she said, letting go of him. “Best you keep your men and horses here.”

  He watched, biting his lip, as the two girls walked off a few paces, whispering. Deenie wasn’t right. Her cheeks were chalky, there were shadows beneath her eyes, and she was more quiet than ever. Was it because he’d been a fool and frightened her about those wanderers? Most like. And most like he could trust her with the truth about his father. But he wasn’t ready to take the chance. Not yet. Not when his blood burned to tumble the girl, and her a mage. Suspect, that made his judgement.

  It’s a cobble I’m in, Tav. Wish you were in it with me, I do.

  A cool breeze sprang up, sighing through the tall grass and fluttering his hair and the horses’ manes. The country they travelled was wide open and pocked with rabbit holes. Slow riding it meant, to keep the horses’ legs from breaking. Smudgy in the distance, a suggestion of more woodland. He didn’t know this part of Vharne, but Hain remembered it. Used to scout up here as a youngster, he did. Catching the man’s eye, he beckoned him closer with a jerk of his chin.

  Hain nudged his horse over. “Captain?” he said, with a straight face. All the barracks men were used to calling him that now.

  “Hain—” Ewen tugged out his spirit path map and shared it between them. “That Charis says she feels the spirit path close. You know where we are, you do.” He pointed. “That’s the path we’re aiming for. Is she right? Are we stopped in that bit of the map?”

  He was a foxy-faced man, Hain. Sharp nose, sharp eyes, a thatch of thinning, gingery hair, and threads of grey in his scraggled beard. That foxy face went still and blank, his gaze shifting to his horse’s blunt brown ears.

  “Hain?” Ewen frowned at him. “Empty your basket, you should. Think I’ll smile at you for holding something back?”

  “No, Captain,” Hain mumbled, then dragged a forearm across his mouth. “See, it’s not a thing you talk on. If you come across it. Some things you don’t talk on, see? Scouts, some scouts, we know. We don’t talk on it. Sorcery, see? Say nothing, lose nothing. That’s the way of it.”

  He stared at his barracks man, forgetting Deenie and Charis for the moment. “Hain, is this you saying you knew about spirit paths?”

  Hain licked his dry lips, nervous. “Didn’t know what they were called, did I? Not ’til you told us the day we clattered out of the Vale.”

  “But you’ve rode them?”

  “A time or two, yes,” said Hain. “Here and there. In the rough. I stumbled on this one we’re looking for, but it was years ago, it was. Couldn’t point to it now.” His gaze flicked to distant Deenie and Charis, trying to sniff out the path. “Most like they’ll find it.” He shuddered. “Those sorcerers.”

  “Mages,” he snapped. “There’s a difference, there is. Hain, how many others h
ave stumbled on Vharne’s spirit paths?”

  “Couldn’t say, Captain. There’s scattered folk in the rough know. But they don’t say.” Hain shrugged. “No point. Never do a thing, these paths, only run a tingle up your legs.”

  Ewen swallowed a curse. What else don’t I know? “And in case it’s sorcery, folk who’ve felt them clap tongue.”

  “That’s the way of it,” Hain agreed. “Safest to do, all round. And—”

  A shout. It was Deenie. As Charis leapt for her, Ewen dropped his reins and slid out of his saddle.

  “Deenie!” he shouted, running. “Deenie!”

  Charis reached her first, where she was sprawled on her back on the grass. “Deenie? Sink it, say something!”

  Deenie blinked at the pale blue sky, with its scattering of clouds. “I’m all right,” she said, dreamily. “It’s just such a relief.”

  As soon as he set foot on it, Ewen felt the spirit path’s warm hum. “Relieved, you are?” he said, glaring down at her. Making me run, showing me startled in front of my men. “Why?”

  Tutting, Charis took his arm and tugged him off the path for scolding. “You’re blind, aren’t you?” she accused. “I call you Noddyhead for teasing, but it seems I was right.” She pulled him round and pointed. “Look at her, Captain. Wearing down to the nub. She told you, she feels sorcery. And the further north we ride, the worse it gets. It churns her up and makes her sick.”

  He wasn’t blind. He’d seen it. But there was nothing he could do and he knew she wanted no talking about it.

  “Feels better on the spirit path, she does?”

  “Yes,” said Charis. “And praise Barl for it. She’ll get some respite now, at least until we reach the border.”

  “No, I won’t,” said Deenie, sitting up. Blades of dry grass and bits of faded flowers clung to her hair. “If I stay on the path I’ll not feel any beasts or wanderers.”

  “If we stay on the path it won’t matter!” Charis retorted. “Because they won’t see us either and we can trit-trot past them like little spring lambs!”

  “Except,” said Deenie, her dark, pained eyes watching him, “that might not suit Captain Ewen.”

  And it wouldn’t. Not when he still held out hope that one of Vharne’s lost wanderers might be the king.

  Charis’s hands were on her hips. “Is that so? Well, sink me whether I care whether it suits him or not!”

  Sighing, Deenie got to her feet before he could help her. “Ewen, I’m right, aren’t I? You’ll keep clear of beasts if you can, but you need the wanderers?”

  “Could be they can tell us useful things,” he said, nimbling round the truth. “The ones not so far gone.”

  A little colour had blushed back into her cheeks. “Then I’ll do my best to find some for you.”

  Charis gasped. “Deenie—”

  “And it’s grateful I am, Deenie,” he said swiftly. “But you’re poorly, Charis says, for not riding a spirit path. Take turns, we could, riding on it and off it.”

  “No,” said Charis. “That’s not good enough. She needs a proper rest, she needs—”

  Deenie raised a hand. “It’ll do.”

  Turning, he started to whistle—then remembered he rode a wiry, rough-bred barracks horse, not his own Granite. But Hain saw him and rode to join them, leading his horse. Taking his reins back he vaulted into his saddle, as behind him Charis fussed at her friend.

  “I wish you wouldn’t do this, Deenie. You’ll be no good to anyone if you fall in a heap.”

  “Then I’d better not fall, had I?” said Deenie. “Don’t fratch at me, Charis. I’ll be fine. Captain?”

  She was a feisty one, and no mistake. His mother would’ve liked her. He thought even Tavin would like her, once the swordmaster forgot she was a mage. Leaning down, he took her outstretched hand and leaped her up behind his saddle. As she settled herself, arms holding him, and Robb rode up with the rest of the men, Hain cleared his throat.

  “It’s coming to me a bit, where we are, Captain,” he said. “A village there was, beyond that stretch of woodland up ahead.”

  Ewen nodded. “Then ride on, we will, to see if it thrives. Charis, why are you standing there with your mouth open? It’s flies you want for supper, is it? Get on Robb’s horse, I say.”

  Charis glowered, but did as she was told.

  Kicking his horse onto the spirit path, feeling that odd drag against its legs, he threw a glance behind him. “I’ll stay on the path a while, Deenie. But after that…”

  “I know.”

  He hated to hurt her, even if it was for Vharne. “It’s my thanks you’ve got.”

  “You’re welcome, Ewen,” she said, tightening her arms in a warning. “But don’t think I won’t have a proper explanation from you, when we’re done.”

  Like Charis, she sounded. He snorted. “I’ll explain if I can, girl. If I can’t, I won’t.”

  She didn’t answer, and so they rode in silence as the sun slid steadily across the sky.

  With no hint of beasts or wanderers, they reached the nearest edge of the woodland and made camp for the night. Pinch-faced, Deenie brought down a score of autumn-plump pigeons for supper. After a swift meal they slept ’til sunrise without trouble, filled their bellies with cold pigeon and rode the spirit path into the woodland’s shadows not long after. The track between the close trees was narrow but sound so they cantered and trotted and cantered, to make up for all the times they’d had no choice but to walk.

  “You slept?” Ewen asked, keeping quiet so the thudding hooves would muffle him.

  Deenie’s head nudged his back as she nodded. “A little.”

  “It’s sorry I am, but I can’t keep on the spirit path as much today,” he said, feeling cruel. “Not with the trees crowding so close. Easy for beasts and wanderers to hide, it’ll be.”

  “That’s all right. I understand.”

  She sounded weary. “Deenie? What’s it like, feeling sorcery?”

  “I can’t explain it,” she said curtly. “Just be glad you don’t.”

  And he was, but it didn’t feel right to say so.

  They rode for hours through the green hush, through dappling pools of shadow and sunlight, chilled and warmed in turns. The air was cool and damp, rich with rotting mulch and tree sap and a thin, sweet note of flowering creeper. Pigeons rattled through the branches overhead. Whenever he guided his horse off the spirit path he felt Deenie’s arms tighten, heard her breathing quicken. And in the short respites he could give her, then he felt what Vharne was costing her in the way she slumped against his back, almost gasping, and the shiver running through her flesh and bones. It nearly broke him.

  But I can’t care more about her than this kingdom. That’s not the king Tavin trained me to be.

  Around noon, as best he could judge by the fingers of sunlight pointing straight to the woodland floor, he once again, with regret, rode his horse off the spirit path. And when the gap between the path and the encroaching woodland widened, he pushed on into a canter. A dozen strides later, Deenie sucked in a sharp breath.

  “Ewen! Stop!”

  Up went his fist. “Hold, I say! Hold!”

  Snorting and stamping and cursing as his barracks men, still riding the spirit path, hauled their horses to a halt.

  “What is it, girl? Beasts or wanderers?”

  She was gulping for air, her arms so tight around him that he could scarcely breathe either.

  “I’m not sure,” she said, her voice strangled. “I think it’s beasts. Up ahead. Not very far. Oh, Ewen, so many.” She was nearly sobbing. “And people—I can feel people—and they’re terrified—”

  People? That meant the village Hain remembered must still be there. Scooping his reins into his left hand, he covered her icy fingers with his right. “Deenie, listen. Can you take them all, can you? If we ride hard to that village and there’s a horde of beasts like you say, can you put them down? I don’t want to risk my men.”

  A shudder ran through her. “Y
es. But Ewen—”

  “If Morg feels it, then he feels it, he does,” he said harshly. “But it’s k—” Fool, think before you speak! “It’s a captain of Vharne, I am, girl. I can’t give our people to beasts.” He looked at Robb and Hain and the rest of his barracks men. “Swords out, but you’ll not risk yourselves, you won’t. Keep your distance. You, Robb—hold at the back, you will. Charis can’t kill beasts but she’s a mage. Could be we’ll need her.”

  Charis’s face, chalky white, peered over Robb’s shoulder. “Deenie? Are you all right?”

  “Save your womanish sympathies for after, girl,” he snapped. “And hang on to Robb. A fall could kill you, it could.”

  “I’m all right, Charis,” Deenie said, choking. “Do what Ewen says. And don’t you dare fall off!”

  Heart thudding, Ewen unsheathed his sword then rested his spurs lightly against his barracks horse’s flanks.

  “Deenie?”

  “Go,” she said. “Go. And stay on the spirit path as long as you can. I need to gather my strength.”

  In a thunder of hooves he led his men out of the woodland, following the path around blind corners, up and down steep slopes. They leapt a streamlet in one dry bound, crashed through undergrowth and hurdled fallen trees. Sick with fear and fury for what they’d soon face, he could scarcely feel the spirit path beneath him.

  Up ahead the trees were thinning, the woodland gloom giving way to full light.

  “Deenie?” he said, over the drumming of hoof beats. “Are you ready?”

  She didn’t speak, only slapped his belly. He took that as a yes.

  The spirit path swept into a long, slow bend, and as they rounded it, clinging to their horses, Ewen saw the small village, its dwellings huddled beyond the last fringe of woodland.

  It was a fair distance off the path—and being plundered by beasts.

  Fresh rage scalded through him, blinding him, making him sweat. He reefed at his horse’s mouth, hauling the animal to a plunging halt, and counted seven—ten—no, eleven beasts. The unclouded sunlight gleamed on their hides and horns and tusks as they chivvied a wailing, weeping crowd of Vharne’s people—his people—into the open ground between their plain homes and the woodland. There were children among them. Babbies clutched to breasts. Hidden from beast-sight by the spirit path, he could hear their terrified crying, floating on the breeze. And he could see torn, blood-soaked bodies, scattered on the grass. But the beasts weren’t killing anyone else. Squinting, he thought he made out grey hair on the murdered villagers.