The Reluctant Mage

by Karen Miller

  Hissing with pride, the dravas flapped its wings. “They are found, Lord Garrick. They await the Master.”

  Found? Yet again, his father’s harsh training stood him in good stead. Not even Morg would see a hint of his crushing disappointment. “You have pleased him.” He breathed in and out, softly, then shifted his gaze to the other dravas. “This is claimed by all of you?”

  Ranged on either side of the grey-eyed dravas, the other quasi-human beasts solemnly nodded. Their wings shifted, thick skin rubbing thick skin, a sibilant, unnerving sound. Twenty there were now, their ranks increased again by Morg so that the ruling of Dorana and the subjugation of the lands surrounding it might proceed even more swiftly and smoothly. Arlin never showed the creatures his loathing. It was a weakness they might be clever enough to exploit. Instead he flicked bored fingers.

  “If all is done as it should be done, then you are done here. Go.”

  With a dull clicking of talons upon marble tiles the winged dravas withdrew from the chamber. As two human slaves swung the doors closed behind them, he let himself breathe out hard. Beneath his sumptuous blue velvet and gold brocade robe—more finery courtesy of Morg’s abandoned mansion—his skin slicked with cold sweat. They made him sick, those hideous things. They sucked his mouth dry and set his heart beating too hard. He’d seen them kill. When he closed his eyes he could feel them kill him, feel their cruel talons tearing vulnerable flesh and snapping bones. He could see his blood spreading in pools on the marble. A nod from Morg and they’d do it. If he misspoke himself but once, if he smiled at the wrong time or didn’t smile when he should, if he trod too swiftly or too slowly, if he should ever betray so much as a hint of the truth—

  How long can I dance this dance? How long before I grow weary and dance myself to bloody death?

  “Stop it, Arlin,” he said, and listened to the lilting echoes of his voice in the still air. “Stop it.”

  They are found, Lord Garrick. They await the Master.

  The dravas’ words were enough to make him weep, for their success meant that he had failed. For all his days and days of trying he’d not unbound one warded book of magic that could help him stop Morg before the sorcerer grew too powerful to ever be defeated. And now, very soon, Morg would consume the last rescued remnants of his sundered self and in doing so complete his unlikely resurrection.

  In large part thanks to me. Father, Father, would you be proud?

  Cool afternoon light spilled through the chamber’s windows and onto the blood-red marble floor. Another day was slowly dying and with its death came the death of Lur and the last of his own people, the Doranen, those innocent descendants of the cowards and traitors who’d sided with Barl and fled the mage war.

  Of course, they might be dead already. Lur’s misery could only have deepened in the time since he and Rafel crossed the mountains. In a way he hoped they were. Cheating Morg of his final, longed-for revenge might be his only revenge.

  I wonder how long I’ll have to savour it?

  Leaving his small, personal audience chamber, he made his way up and up and up through the lofty Hall of Knowledge, up to Morg’s spacious, private domain, his eyrie. Outside its closed doors he stood and waited. Waited. Felt the tiniest stir of hope when it seemed Morg might not know he was there. Which in turn might mean—

  Is it possible? Could it be—

  Soundless, the wide, brass-bound doors swung open.

  Heartbroken, and hiding it, Arlin entered the chamber and halted before the sorcerer’s throne.

  “Master,” he said, his voice perfectly controlled. “It is done.”

  Eyes closed, his face smooth and still, Morg nodded. And it was Morg. Even in repose there was a difference between him and Rafel. After so long within his stolen body the sorcerer had remoulded it in his image. New lines around the eyes. A different way of holding his mouth. This Rafel looked older. Colder. More cruel.

  Never in his life did he expect to grieve the loss.

  “So the last of the puppet rulers is come,” said the sorcerer, dressing his satisfaction in Rafel’s deep voice. “Four kings to kneel before me.” He frowned. “I would have preferred seven.”

  But of the seven lands surrounding Dorana, three had never recovered from Morg’s earlier predations. Iringa, Manemli and Feen had collapsed in his wake, descending into chaos. Or so the dravas sent to them had said, and the dravas did not lie.

  “Are these kings assembled, Lord Garrick? Do they await my pleasure?”

  “Master, they do,” he said. “They are held in readiness to pay you homage.”

  “And the last of my sundered pieces?”

  He couldn’t control the shudder. “Master, the dravas have delivered them. They are housed with the others, and await your loving reunion.”

  Morg smiled. “They distress you.”

  Distress? It was too mild a word. The rotting flesh, the putrefied minds, the ceaseless raving and chanting. He’d never seen a filthier thing.

  “Master, their time grows short, I fear,” he said. “Few humans are strong enough to hold even so small a part of you for any time.”

  “That is true,” said Morg, and opened his eyes. “In all the wide world, there is only one Rafel.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “If I had chosen you, Arlin, it is what you’d have become, quite quickly,” Morg added, so gentle. So kind. “A raving, bleeding, rotting monstrosity. But I looked within you and I saw you deserved more than that. One day you will be the last Doranen. Tell me that pleases you.”

  “Master, I—” And then he shook his head. “Forgive me. I cannot.”

  The fading light through the windows picked out Morg’s steady breathing in flashes of ruby and opal and emerald. “You think I should spare them?”

  “I think they’re your people. I think they should be given the chance to serve you, as I serve you. Those who would serve you should not be put to death.”

  Morg’s eyes glittered. “Ah, but little mage, the question is: would they serve me? They are Barl-rotted, these cherished Doranen of yours.”

  “Not all. I have told you, Master. Some of us kept our wits.”

  “Yes, Arlin,” Morg agreed. Ringed fingers glided thoughtfully through his long black hair. “You did tell me that.”

  Standing, waiting, as Morg stared at nothing, lost in thought, he looked into those dark Olken eyes, Rafel’s eyes, his enemy’s eyes, and searched there for any sign that Asher’s son still lived.

  Blink, Rafel. Twitch your cheek. Weep one tear. Something. Anything. I know you hate me, but still. You can’t leave me here alone with him. Please.

  Nothing.

  And then—did he imagine it? No. No, there was a change. A shifting in the dark, open Olken eyes. Beneath the surface of Morg’s face, a realignment of muscle. New lines smoothing here… lost lines reappearing there… and a subtle readjustment of the stubborn mouth. Yes. That was Rafel.

  But before he could say a word, before he could take one step toward the Olken, Rafel opened his mouth and screamed. Screamed again as he clutched the arms of Morg’s throne, screamed for a third time as his spine bowed him almost in two. Screamed and screamed again as his heels drummed the marble floor. Anguish and agony and a mind lost to reason. Madness in his face and his wide, staring eyes.

  And then it stopped and there was stillness. A sweet, blessed silence. Muscle by muscle, Morg returned. And then he smiled.

  “You wanted to know of Rafel, Lord Garrick? And now you know. And you may leave me. One hour, little Doranen. In one hour I will rejoin myself.” The smile vanished and within a heartbeat he was angry again. “So much of me lost in the wilderness, Arlin. There are parts of me murdered. Did you know? Did I tell you? Parts of me murdered, parts of me starved and rotted and trapped to die with the vessel not strong enough to bear me. Parts of me set free from their flesh prison that could find no other vessel and so perished in the wind. Oh, Arlin, I am diminished. There are pleasures in flesh but oh, I am so small.
”

  It had become a tediously familiar, self-pitying refrain. “You won’t remain small, Master,” he said, because it was expected. Because it was one of the reasons Morg kept him alive. To reassure him, flatter him, act as an echo of his dominion dreams and so keep the dark, looming fears at bay.

  Morg closed his fingers on the arm of his throne, shuddering. And then he had himself under control. “You’re right, Arlin. I was infinite once and shall be infinite once more. Go, I told you. You have only an hour. See that everything is prepared—or be prepared for my wrath.”

  Arlin escaped the chamber. Fell shaking against the wall outside as its doors banged shut. And when he could stand again, withdrew to do his master’s bidding.

  “Deenie!”

  Mind reeling, stomach heaving, Deenie rolled over and spat bile on the dungeon’s cold stone floor. If there’d been food in her belly she’d have heaved that up instead, but there’d been no food offered to them since they’d reached Elvado.

  “Deenie,” Charis said again, pleading. “What’s wrong? Is it the blight? Do you need a pother?”

  She almost laughed. Ewen needed a pother for his torn face. She’d used up the salve on him in the cart, to no good use. The wounds needed something stronger than salve. But it was clear there’d be no pother. Not for him. Not for any of them. Weakly, she patted Charis’s anxious hand.

  “No.”

  “Then what’s the matter?”

  I can’t tell her. How can I tell her? I don’t want to break her heart.

  “Nothing,” she said, turning away to rub her face’s sickly sweat on her sleeve. Hiding. Lying. “A bad dream. An upset stomach.”

  But Charis knew her too well. “What kind of bad dream? Deenie—is it Rafel?”

  Barl’s tits, yes. It was Rafe. A rush of tears filled her eyes, so she had to keep her face hidden. For weeks and weeks nothing… and then this.

  “Deenie—”

  “Leave her be, girl,” said Ewen. His voice was slow and stiff, the talon-wounds in his face paining him anew. “You raise a ruckus, you’ll have beasts in here, you will.”

  “And did I ask you, Captain Noddyhead?” snapped Charis. “Think I care about beasts when my best friend’s sick to weeping?”

  “I care about beasts when it’s my men they’ll kill!” he snapped. “Girl, you need to think clever, you do.”

  Deenie bit her lip until she thought her voice could be trusted. “Don’t fratch, you two. Ain’t we got enough strife as it is?”

  “Sorry,” said Charis, and took hold of her hand, chasing away some of the shivering cold. Rafel. Oh, she was hard put not to weep. The pain in him. The anguish. No words, not even a cry for help. Just a loud and terrible screaming, worse than any blight she’d ever felt. And then he’d vanished, as though he’d never been. Had he died? Is that what she’d just felt? Her brother’s sudden dying?

  I think it was. I think I’ve lost him. Come all this stupid long way for nowt.

  “Please, Deenie,” said Charis, anxious. “Don’t cry. We’ll be all right.”

  And that was a stupid thing to say, but it wasn’t in her to bite at Charis. Sitting up, she smeared her face dry then slumped against the nearby dungeon wall. “Don’t mind me. I’m just weary.”

  Their fellow captives stopped staring and returned to private, murmured conversations. It was a small chamber she and Charis and Ewen and his barracks men had been pushed into by Morg’s beasts, made smaller still by the number of people already crowded within its four windowless walls.

  Like them, the other prisoners were road-stained and odorous. On being shoved through the door, Deenie had counted eleven unfamiliar faces. Three of them belonged to important men, if their dirty, dusty garments were any guide. Faded silks and moth-eaten velvets and tarnished jewels, they wore. Riches from a kinder time. It was odd to see such finery after so long with Ewen’s plain, practical leathers. The other captives were attendants, or so she guessed.

  With the worst of her grief and shock receding, she touched Ewen’s knee. “So,” she said softly. “Our fellow prisoners. The important ones. Do you know who they are?”

  He looked at her, his face self-contained beneath the pain of his wounds. “They’d be kings, I say, from the lands Morg means to swallow again. Their names I can’t tell you. Vharne keeps to itself.”

  “Only three?”

  “We’d come to think Iringa was lost,” he said, one shoulder shrugging. “Could be more than Iringa never rose again after Morg. Still. Three or thirty, girl. What does it matter, I say.”

  And now he sounded so defeated. Reminded, could be, of his own lost king. But there was nothing she could do about that, and talking of it fratched him. As for any of it mattering, she s’posed it didn’t. But it was something better to think about than killing spells or the burning blight in her blood and the new, aching loss of her brother.

  Oh, Rafe.

  Shifting a little, she felt Barl’s diary unstick from her ribs.

  So much for not thinking on it.

  And so she should think on it. She couldn’t be a mouse. Not about this. The sorcerer had to be put down, no matter the cost. Besides, being truthful—with Rafe gone, somehow the notion of dying to kill Morg didn’t seem so bad. Mama gone… Rafe gone… her gone too, soon. And Da would never know. Perhaps his blighted sleep was for the best.

  He never forgave himself for killing King Gar. Could be, in a twisted way, I can set that right.

  Feeling Charis’s fingers tug her dirty sleeve, she turned. Leaned close. Charis’s eyes were so frighted.

  “Deenie, there has to be a way you can magic us out of here,” she said, her voice little more than a sigh. “How will we find Rafe if we’re cooped up in this dungeon?”

  Her heart thudded, painfully hard. “Charis, I’m sorry,” she breathed back. “I can’t.”

  “But you must,” Charis insisted. “Rafe’s here. I can feel it. And I came with you, I risked everything, I sailed the whirlpools and the waterspouts, tramped all those leagues so I could find him. You have to get us out of here. You have to—”

  I’m sorry, Charis. I can’t hear this.

  “Girl, what did you do?” said Ewen, as she eased Charis’s limp body to the floor.

  She scowled. “I swear, if you’re not careful I’ll start calling you Captain sinking Noddyhead.”

  He leaned over her, his green-gold eyes full of a startling suspicion. “What did you do?”

  Nothing so great Morg would notice, she hoped. Smoothing a stray wisp of Charis’s hair back from her used-to-be-so-pretty face, she risked a glance at him. “I nudged her. All right? She’s worn to the bone and frighted spitless for Rafe, so I nudged her. She’ll sleep a tiddy few moments and when she wakes, she’ll feel better.”

  “And she’ll wake, will she?”

  The question thumped her like a clenched fist. “Of course she will. What do you take me for?”

  He crowded her so close his torn forehead almost touched hers. “A liar.”

  “Ewen…”

  But she couldn’t hold his fierce gaze. Robb and his barracks men were staring, sudden tension singing through them. Ready to leap if she used her magic on their captain. The strangers crowded in the chamber with them, they were staring too.

  “Ewen, please,” she murmured. “Please don’t stir trouble. We’re in enough strife, ain’t we?”

  Fingers closing around her upper arm, he tugged her against him. She felt his heat. Smelled the familiar horse and sweat of him. His heavy heartbeat thudded through her.

  “It’s the truth I’ll have of you, girl,” he said, his voice so low, so dangerous. “Or the strife here will be yours, I say. Is your brother in Elvado or isn’t he?”

  He was hurting her. Roped and corded with muscle, he had strong swordsman’s fingers. He was important. She’d dreamed him.

  I have to trust.

  “He was. I’m sure he was. But Ewen, he’s dead. It was Rafel dying I woke from.” She was weeping ag
ain, and didn’t care. “I came too late. I couldn’t save him.” Saying it aloud broke her. And as he felt her break he released his cruelly tight fingers and instead sheltered her within his arms, as though he’d never once looked at her with cold mistrust.

  “You could be wrong,” he said, his voice unsteady. There was grief in him too, for the loss of a brother. “It’s as weary as Charis, you are. That could’ve been a fright dream, Deenie, it could’ve been—”

  “No, no, it wasn’t.” Struggling to kill the tears, she pulled away from him. “I’m a mage. I know. Only you mustn’t tell Charis. It’s for me to say.” Her breath caught. “It’ll nigh on kill her, I think. She loved him so much. And Rafel was a fool, he danced around her this whole last year. He flirted with every pretty girl he crossed paths with but he loved Charis. He just wouldn’t say. And now it’s too late.”

  His eyes bleak, he touched the drying tears on her cheeks. “You lied to her, Deenie.”

  “I had to,” she said fiercely. “And I’ll keep on lying ’til it’s safe to tell the truth. I can’t have her fall to pieces on me now. Look around you, Captain Noddyhead. This is Morg’s domain and we’re his prisoners. And with Rafe… gone—” She clenched her fists, willing herself to stay strong. “—I’m the only mage here to stand against him. Unless a king of these other lands is mageborn?”

  “Not a one of them,” said Ewen, sighing. “The Doranen were mages, in this city of theirs. No other race of men I know has the power of magic.” Then he frowned. “Except your people, that is. Doranen and Olken. No more.”

  Deenie covered her face.

  And betweem us just see the trouble we’ve caused. Da was right all along. Magic’s nowt but a curse. And look at me now. Cursed to try and save the world.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  A while later, Ewen stirred. “Deenie.” He was frowning again. “It’s one girl, you are. Can one girl stand against a sorcerer like Morg?”

  She wasn’t sure how to answer.

  Should she tell him now about the Words of UnMaking and what she had planned, or should she wait? No. Best that she wait. He’d kick up such a fuss. Most like he’d do his best to stop her. And to stop him she’d need to use strong magic. Morg would feel it, and that would be that.