The Awakened Mage

by Karen Miller

  “It’s all right. In the end she did break easily, didn’t she? But that was just flesh and bone. What we have here is a matter of power. And Barl knows, Fane had more of that than most.”

  “More than you?”

  Gar shrugged. “It’s moot. The only question that counts now is do I have enough?”

  “And do you?”

  “That’s what we’re here to find out, isn’t it?”

  Again Asher looked at the Chamber’s wall with its burden of knowledge, of history. Of expectations. “You got any idea what all this means?”

  “Some,” Gar admitted. “But I’m not so worried about that. See those books in the bookshelves? They’re the diaries of every WeatherWorker who ever lived, all the way back to Barl herself. Contained in those pages is everything I need to know about the weather, and the Wall, and how they work to keep each other strong. All I need to do is read them and remember. And we both know I’m very good with books.”

  Asher looked away. Books, aye. Gar had never had trouble with books. But this? This was different. This was all then futures, their health and their happiness and the ordered life of Lur... and it rested in the hands of a man not so far past his majority and only recently come into his magical birthright. A man alone, bereft of an older, experienced voice to guide him when he doubted, to support him when he stumbled.

  To save him if he failed.

  Suddenly he was feeling sick again. “Maybe Jarralt’s right. Durm should be here. What help will I be if something goes—”

  Gar’s face tightened with impatience. “How often must I say it? Nothing will go wrong! This is my destiny, Asher. How can I be doomed to disaster when Barl herself has placed me on her throne?”

  “I don’t know,” he said unhappily. “But there’s more than one fisherman who’s set out to sea under clear skies and never come home again. Sometimes storms break without warning, Gar.”

  “Westwailing was an accident,” Gar said curtly. “The unfortunate result of illness. I am meant to be here. Nothing will go wrong.”

  Asher shoved his hands in his coat pockets. “Why couldn’t you stop the horses?”

  “What?”

  “There were five magicians in that carriage, Gar. You tryin’ to tell me one of you couldn’t have used magic to stop the horses from gallopin’ over the edge of Salbert’s Eyrie?”

  Gar stared at him. “The art—if you can call it that—of magically influencing another living thing is long lost to us. Barl forbade it, and with good reason. Can you imagine what might happen if one magician could crawl inside another’s mind and work his will unhampered?”

  Asher turned away. He could imagine it, aye, and bloody well wished he couldn’t.

  Gar’s voice pursued him. “What are you really trying to say? I thought the accident was behind us. I thought we had moved on from uncertainty and suspicion. Was I mistaken? Do you still have doubts? Do you doubt me?“

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “No!” said Asher, turning back. “But it’s all happenin’ so fast! This time last night we’re standing at the edge of Salbert’s Eyrie. I’ve just crawled up from seein’ your poor dead family, and you’re there tellin’ the world it was Conroyd Jarralt who killed ‘em. A day later it’s all decided what happened were an accident, you’re proclaimed king and here we are in the most secret, sacred place in the kingdom ready for you to make it rain and me to save you if it all goes arse over eyeballs! I’m dizzy, Gar! I just want to stop, just for a minute, so’s I can get my bearings! Sink me, I’m a fisherman! I never came to Dorana for this!”

  Gar’s face was riven with stresses he’d never asked for. Never deserved. “And I never expected to be king. Barl have mercy! Don’t you think I’d sacrifice every last drop of magic in me if it would turn back time and save them? Do you think I wanted this?”

  “Of course I bloody don’t! Nobody in his right mind would want this.”

  “But I have it,” Gar said grimly. “Want it or not, it’s mine.”

  “But not mine!” he said, and thumped his chest. “I’m Olken, your magic’s got nowt to do with me. And if this does go arse over eyeballs I don’t want to be the one left behind to explain what you’re doing lyin’ stone dead on the floor!”

  A ringing silence. Then Gar flicked a finger and the chamber door swung open. “Of course. I should’ve realized. I’m sorry.”

  Expecting argument, or rebuke, Asher blinked. “Gar—”

  “No. It’s all right. Only fools never feel fear.” A bleak smile. “I’m so afraid right now I could vomit. But that’s not your concern. You’re right. This Weather Chamber is no place for an Olken.”

  Torn between relief and guilt he shoved his hands back into his pockets. “See, Gar, you got to be careful now. Jarralt could use me bein’ here as a way to undermine you.”

  With a flash of unfamiliar arrogance, Gar lifted his chin. “He could try.”

  “That’s the point. He would. He will.”

  “No. The point is that I’ve been selfish. In the time since we first met, I’ve come to think of you as the brother I never had. I suppose I hoped—thought—you felt the same way.”

  Gar his brother! Asher stared. He had enough damned brothers to last him a lifetime. Did he really want another one? One with blond hair, a crown and enough trouble trailing in his wake to start a dozen fistfights down at the Goose?

  The answer came slowly, but with certainty. Yes. He did. Because, despite all the aggravation and the irritation, the heart-stopping catastrophes and the niggling spats, in a little over a year Gar had given him more, trusted him more, leaned on him more, laughed with him more and cared about him more than his flesh-and-blood brothers had in a lifetime.

  The realization must have shown in his face because Gar smiled. “I’m glad. Now go.”

  “Go?” he echoed. “But—”

  “Brothers don’t burden each other unfairly,” Gar said. His expression was contrite. Earnest. “Get some rest, you look exhausted. But before you retire send a message to Conroyd Jarralt asking him to join me. I’ll wait till he arrives.”

  Asher cleared his throat. Good. This was good. He didn’t belong here, in the fiery heart of Doranen magic. No Olken did. “You’re sure?”

  Gar nodded. “Yes. It has to be Conroyd.”

  He took a hesitant step backwards. Battled his better judgment, lost, and said, “If you really want me to stay, I’ll—”

  “What I want isn’t important. Go, Asher. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Guts churning, he turned and walked towards the open door. He was relieved, he was affronted, he was thrilled, he was furious. Bastard. Why couldn’t Gar have argued? Why did he have to be so—so—understanding? So reasonable. Did Gar think he couldn’t do it? That he wasn’t strong enough to take whatever WeatherWorking could dish out, even as a bystander? Somewhere deep inside did Gar think the Olken were weak!

  That he was weak?

  He reached the door, fingers touching the unpainted timber. He stopped. Was he weak?

  “Damn it!” he shouted, and slammed the chamber door closed in his own face. Whirled around to glare at watchful, waiting Gar. “You always know what to say, don’t you! Always know which strings to pull so’s you can get your own way! I should’ve known—I’ve watched you do it day in day out as the bloody Olken Administrator! Mind you, can’t say I ever expected to find you administratin’ me!”

  Gar flushed. Folded his arms across his chest. “Well? Did it work?”

  “Of course it worked, you devious bastard! I’m on this side of the bloody door, ain’t I?”

  The first true, unfettered smile since the accident lit Gar’s face. “Don’t expect me to apologize.”

  He snorted. “Don’t worry. I’m dumb, but I ain’t that dumb.”

  “I know I’m asking a lot,” Gar said, the bright smile fading. “It seems I’m always asking a lot from you. But don’t expect me to apologize for that either. You’re a man with many gifts, Asher. Gifts best u
sed for the good of this kingdom, and if you think I’ll stop using them just because the idea makes you uncomfortable, or me, then you really should walk away now.”

  “No. I already got one friend harmed for life ‘cause I walked away.” Jed. Asher folded his arms against the bruising memory and thudded his shoulderblades to the door. “I’m stayin’.”

  Gar nodded. “Good.” He returned to the map of Lur, his expression now revealing uncertainty. Caution. A wary hope. “It’s like a dance,” he whispered. “One with a set pattern that hasn’t changed in over six centuries, that’s been passed from WeatherWorker to WeatherWorker since the Weather Magics were born. All I have to do is find the right place to join in ...” He frowned. “The transfer of incantations from the Orb was... difficult. Painful. Durm said it was to be expected, but...”

  “You think it didn’t work?”

  “No, no, it worked,” said Gar. “The Weather Magics are in me. If I close my eyes I can see their shapes. Taste the words. The sigils tingle my fingertips, eager for release.”

  Asher shrugged. “Then let’s not keep ‘em waiting.”

  “No. Let’s not.” Stepping slowly, walking widdershins around the map, Gar raised his right hand and traced a figure in the air. Its shape glowed, burned bright as fire, then faded. At the same time he pronounced a single word: “Luknek.” Another shape, with the left hand this time. Another word: “Tolnek.” Bright fire burned, and faded. Right hand. Word. Left hand. Word. Right hand. Word Left hand. Word. Out of nowhere a wind, rising. It centered around Gar, stirred his clothing as he walked and spoke and drew burning patterns in the air.

  Still leaning against the closed door, Asher felt his skin prickle and saw a faint blue shimmer dance along his forearms, then disappear.

  The power was building.

  As he watched, caught between fear and fascination, small clouds thickened over the map’s model Dorana City. Touched by a shadow he glanced up and saw clouds through the glass-domed ceiling, spinning into life out of the clear night sky.

  Buffeted more strongly now, Gar continued to circle the map, sweating as he traced more sigils in the air and uttered the words of power, faster and faster. The wind increased in strength, began to howl like a live thing trapped and tortured. Three more turns around the table and he could walk no further: the wind was too strong. The power too great. So he stood, braced against its might and fury, arms raised, fingers battling to make the signs that would call the rain. His eyes were screwed tight closed and his mouth was open in a silent gasping, as though he were being torn apart. The writhing clouds above the map billowed outwards to cover the entire recreation of Lur. Tiny forks of lightning flickered in their depths, to be echoed a heartbeat later in the clouds above Chamber and City. Thunder rumbled, inside and out.

  Blue light like little fingers of flame danced the length of Gar’s body. Unraveled his disciplined hair and whipped it round his face as though the long blond strands were alive and in torment.

  At its raging peak the power ignited into a wild blue firestorm, roaring and crackling and feeding on itself, with Gar at its greedy heart. Blood burst from his eyes, from his nose, his ears, his mouth, and his whole body flailed and shook. He opened his mouth and screamed like a man on fire. Horrified, Asher started forward then stopped, indecision a knife at his throat.

  “Gar!” he shouted. “Gar, are you all right? Is this normal or not? What should I do? For Barl’s sake, tell me what to do!”

  But Gar was far beyond hearing. In the nightmare leaping of blue flame and golden glimlight his blood-slicked face looked inhuman. Unreachable. Unknown.

  Then, as had happened at the height of the storm in Westwailing, an enormous explosion of sound rent the air. Asher cried out and clapped his hands to his ears. Gar echoed him, screaming as though he’d been pierced by a sword...

  ... and overhead the blotting clouds wept their summoned rain like a benediction over Dorana City and all the lands of Lur.

  ———

  Conroyd Jarralt was entertaining friends to dinner. Only the heads of the best houses, naturally. Those closest in status to his own. The Doranen might be illustrious by nature, but still, some families were more illustrious than others. Sorvold. Boqur. Daltrie. Hafat. Direct descendants of the great exiles from Old Dorana, those wise magicians who’d seen the way the wind was blowing and fled before Morgan’s madness destroyed them as it destroyed hundreds of other, less perspicacious magicians. They were names to be proud of. Histories that would embarrass no one, most particularly their host. And they were all senior members of the kingdom’s General Council too, with their busy fingers pressed against any number of pulses.

  A man could be a friend and useful at the same time. In fact, it was better if he was.

  Of course, Council service or not, none of those names was as illustrious as his own. Conroyd Jarralt of House Jarralt, founded by Lindin Jarralt, one of the finest magicians the Doranen race had ever produced. Only the royal house could boast a better pedigree, more exceptional magicians, and even that was subject to debate. After all, would House Jarralt have bred up a cripple as heir to the throne?

  No. It most certainly would not.

  Were it not for the treachery and mischance his family had suffered during the turbulence of Trevoyle’s Schism, it would be WeatherWorkers born of House Jarralt, not Torvig, who ruled the Kingdom of Lur. Dusty memory had power still to boil his blood; the degree of kinship between his ancestor and the madman Morgan had been slight. Hardly worth mentioning. Good for the merest footnote in the annals of history, if that More importantly, there had never been so much as a breath of an allegiance between the insane sorcerer and his twice-removed cousin Lindin. As Barl was his witness, Lindin had been one of the first to voice concern over Morgan’s experiments! Could Borne Torvig have claimed the same of his own ancestor? No, he could not.

  But that, seemingly, counted for nothing. Morg’s shade haunted them all. Tainted him still in some eyes, though no one would dare say so to his face.

  Only now, with the near extinction of House Torvig, did blighted House Jarralt have a chance to assume its rightful place in Doranen history. Why, if Gar had been killed along with his family, or if the miracle flowering of his magical birthright had never happened, it would be Conroyd Jarralt who stood today as king.

  But Gar wasn’t dead, and his late-born powers appeared formidable. Which meant that yet again House Jarralt was to be denied its proper place in the world.

  Fate could be monstrously unfair.

  Not for the first time, Jarralt regretted his lack of a daughter. He could have married a daughter to the fate-favored scion of House Torvig and died less unhappily, knowing his blood flowed through the veins of Gar’s child, the kingdom’s next WeatherWorker. But no. Even that small consolation was denied him. Two children he’d been granted, like most citizens of Lur. Even if dispensation could be arranged for the birth of a third child it was far too late now and just as likely his dull and dutiful wife would waste the effort on another son.

  Still. Where the prospect of rightful glory was concerned, not all hope was lost. Fat Durm’s hold on life was yet precarious, or so discreet inquiries informed him. With the Master Magician’s successor carelessly unnamed, Gar would be forced to make the appointment himself. And it was clear that in all the kingdom there was no one better bred, better qualified or more deserving of the honor than Lord Conroyd Jarralt.

  “My dear,” a voice beside him murmured. “The wine.”

  Jarralt blinked and watched his surroundings swim back into focus. His dining room, lavishly appointed. His wife, lavishly jeweled. His friends, waiting patiently for his next unimpeachable pronouncement. “Wine?”

  The immaculate Olken servant standing at his elbow bowed and held out a bottle for his inspection. “As requested, my lord. Vontifair Icewine, vintage 564. Chilled for precisely forty minutes.”

  Nole Daltrie wagged a finger. “564? Cuttin’ it a bit fine there aren’t you, Con? Icewine
don’t hold its bite for more than eighty years. Any longer than that and you might as well pour us a glass of piss and vinegar.”

  Con. Jarralt hid his irritation behind a bland smile. “Don’t worry, Nole. The eightieth anniversary of this vintage’s bottling isn’t until tomorrow.”

  Daltrie hooted and slapped the table. “Vintage icewine and vintage Conroyd! What an evening!”

  Jarralt nodded at the servant, who broke the bottle’s de-warded seal and splashed a mouthful into the next course’s wineglass. The icewine’s thin, snow-laden tang sliced through the dining room’s lingering redolence of honey-baked lamb, muscatel venison and spiced pork; Jarralt’s guests sighed and licked their lips. He rested the rim of the glass against his teeth, subduing greed, and permitted a trickle of clear blue indulgence into his mouth.

  It cleansed his jaded palate like magic.

  “Perfect,” he said, lowering the glass, and nodded again at the servant. The other glasses were scrupulously burdened with three inches of icewine, not a hair’sbreadth more; the disappointment-laced avarice in his guests’ eyes almost made him laugh out loud. Waiting, he traveled his gaze around all their guzzling faces. When the servant had withdrawn and they were again alone, he remarked, “So. A new day dawns for our beloved kingdom.”

  As though invisible cords had been cut his fellow diners let out silent sighs of relief and relaxed in their chairs. Morel, Sorvold’s robusdy handsome wife, fluttered her jewel-crusted fingers. “I must say, Conroyd dear, it’s all terribly disconcerting. I mean, the boy’s a child. In magic, at least, if not in fact, and even there he’s still young. What kind of a king will he make? Does anybody know? Does anybody know him? I certainly don’t!”

  Iyasha Hafar was nodding her vigorous agreement; her diamond pendant earrings prismed the chandelier’s glim-light and scattered rainbows across the tablecloth. “Ex-acdy! Why, he’s practically a stranger! I think he’s only ever attended one of my garden parties and I’m sure even then it was under sufferance! I’d swear you could count on the fingers of one hand the number of invitations he’s accepted in the last year.”