The Congruent Wizard (The Congruent Mage Series Book 2)

by Dave Schroeder

  “That means you must have dragooned Doethan to come back and lead the Conclave once Gwýnnett’s faction got more power,” said Merry.

  “We did,” said Astrí. She held back a smile of her own. Merry had real talent for political analysis, even at fifteen. She reminded Astrí of another young woman, many years ago.

  “How did you and Carys lose your grip?” asked Merry. “How could you give Gwýnnett and her faction the time and opportunity she needed to challenge you?”

  Astrí didn’t reply for several paces. They turned a corner and had to sidestep to avoid an animated broom and round black gate on the floor playing dustpan. Merry was pleased she’d predicted their existence.

  “The answer is grief,” said Astrí. “Losing her husband and grandson in the space of a week took a toll on Carys—and on me. We lost our focus and shut ourselves off to be alone with our pain. Our allies didn’t know when or if we’d resume our former roles.”

  “And Gwýnnett and her people filled the void.”

  “Like they’d been expecting it,” said Astrí. “I think Gwýnnett must have slipped something into our food when I was less vigilant about inspections after the state funerals. My mind stopped being fogged when I decided to fast more than a year later. I made sure Queen Carys didn’t eat anything adulterated immediately afterward, and she was soon her earlier self, if sadder and maybe wiser.”

  “That explains it,” said Merry. “Is King Dârio kept drugged as well?”

  She could see sunlight entering the corridor up ahead.

  “No,” said Astrí. “That’s one of the bright spots of the situation. Young Dârio is an ally. He has no fondness for his mother, but feigns being under her thumb to avoid Gwýnnett’s more extensive manipulations.”

  “Thank goodness for that,” said Merry.

  They’d reached the sunlit spot. A spiral staircase led up a level. They ascended into a massive assembly hall. A pair of wizards—one in striped robes, one in solid-colored robes, noted their magestones and let them pass. Merry heard shouts from the other side of a wall near the spiral stairs.

  “Blast!” said Astrí. “It’s already started. Let’s get inside.”

  Chapter 27

  Damon

  “Blast,” said Damon when they’d left the queen’s apartments. His magestone had just glowed with three quick flashes of blue light. “The Conclave has been summoned. I thought I might have at least another hour.”

  “This way, your wizardness,” said Gruffyd, starting down the hall toward a staircase.

  “Where are you going?” asked Damon.

  “To the wizard’s door to the Conclave’s headquarters,” said Gruffyd. The big guard looked from side to side uneasily. “It’s three levels below us.”

  “I know where it is,” said Damon, “I had the wizard’s door built myself, so my comings and goings wouldn’t be advertised to every busybody in the kingdom. But I can’t attend a meeting of the Conclave looking like this.”

  Damon moved his hands from his shoulders to his waist. Gruffyd took in his well-worn robes and scruffy wisent-skin jacket.

  “I can see that,” said Gruffyd.

  “Take me back to my quarters,” said Damon. “I should have something more impressive to wear there.”

  “Where are your quarters, your wizardness? Somewhere in Brendinas?”

  “They’re on the second floor, not far from King Dârio’s study. Get me there and I can find my suite myself. And don’t call me your wizardness. My name is Damon—Ealdamon if you’re being formal. If you must use a title, call me Master Mage.”

  Gruffyd’s eyes grew large. “Yes, Master Mage Ealdamon.”

  “Gruffyd, is it?” asked the wizard. “There’s no need to be formal when it’s just the two of us. Master Mage Ealdamon takes too long say and makes me feel old. Just call me Damon.”

  “But you are old, Damon,” said Gruffyd with a grin. It was what Merry would have said, he was sure.

  “Get moving,” said Damon, smiling back, “or I’ll turn you into a frog.”

  “Can wizards even do that?” asked Gruffyd as he started walking away from the staircase.

  “Now you’re thinking,” said Damon as he lengthened his stride to keep up with the clanking armored youth. Perhaps the lad wasn’t as much of a blockhead as he seemed.

  * * * * *

  Damon kept his overly-protective dusting cloud away from Gruffyd’s head with a stern look. The old wizard tossed four robes down on the white goose-down comforter covering his bed. All were cut from sumptuous fabric that Gruffyd was sure would drape well, even if Damon’s thin form made him look like he’d been on short rations for years.

  You’d think the kingdom’s Master Mage would be able to afford a decent cook, thought Gruffyd.

  “Which one do you think looks more impressive?” asked Damon. “The solid blue? The blue-on-blue stripes?”

  Gruffyd bit his lower lip and looked uncomfortable. Nyssia had asked him similar questions about her ensembles in the past and he never managed to come up with an acceptable answer. He glanced around the room, buying time. A tapestry to one side of the fireplace showed a young male figure in dark-blue robes standing in the middle of a carved wooden balcony above a crowd of wizards. Gruffyd pulled his eyes away. Damon was still talking.

  “What about the particolor in different shades of blue? Or the one that sparkles?”

  The old wizard was staring at him, expecting an answer, so Gruffyd went with the obvious.

  “They’re all a bit old-fashioned, sir.”

  “Of course they’re old-fashioned. They’re forty years old, for goodness sake. If I hadn’t protected them from moths they’d be full of holes by now.”

  “Yes, your wizard—” Gruffyd stop. Damon looked frustrated. “Yes, Damon. On you, old-fashioned would look good.”

  Frustration turned to exasperation.

  “Yes, but which one should I wear if I want to disrupt the meeting of the Conclave and make their jaws drop.”

  “I think having Dâron’s near-mythical master mage show up would get everyone’s attention, even if you showed up naked,” said Gruffyd. “Maybe especially if you showed up naked.”

  “That’s not my style, lad. Try again. Which robe?”

  “You support King Dârio?”

  “Of course I do. He’s the king.”

  “But not his mother, I think,” said Gruffyd. “I remember you called her the Spider.”

  “Correct,” said Damon, carefully enunciating each syllable. “She’s a conniving poisonous…”

  “Then I wouldn’t wear the striped robe,” said Gruffyd, cutting off Damon’s tirade.

  “Blast! That’s right. It slipped my mind,” said Damon. “Princess Gwýnnett’s supporters are using striped robes now. It’s a shame I won’t be able to wear this one any more.” He folded the striped robe and put it carefully away in the large chest at the foot of his bed.

  “If you support the old queen, the solid-colored robe would work,” said Gruffyd.

  “I do, but it won’t,” said Damon.

  Gruffyd’s eyes followed Damon, waiting for details.

  “If I’m going to reassume my place as the leader of the Conclave, I want the wizards to see me as above their petty factions—here to rescue the kingdom in its time of need.”

  “I wouldn’t put it to them that way,” said Gruffyd. “Nyssia says they’re proud and stubborn.”

  “Nyssia?” asked Damon.

  “My fiancé,” said Gruffyd.

  “Takes one to know one. I’ll win them over—but I still need to decide between particolor and sparkly.”

  “I’ve seen free wizards in the taverns and shops near the palace,” said Gruffyd. “They tend to dress in particolor.”

  “Good point,” said Damon. “And since they control the balance of power on the Conclave, it might not be bad to look like one.”

  Gruffyd nodded, attempting to seem sage and not managing to.

  “Still,” said D
amon, stroking his chin. “It wouldn’t do for the Master Mage of the kingdom to put himself forward as a free wizard. I may have been gone for forty years, but I’m still Dâron’s most senior crown wizard.”

  “Uh huh,” said Gruffyd. He didn’t know what else to say.

  “The sparkly robe it is,” said Damon, a broad smile animating his lined face. “Observe!”

  Damon held up the sparkling dark-blue robe he’d selected by its shoulders, so it caught the sunlight. Couched threads of silver and gold on the sleeves and body interlocked in intricate patterns of reflecting knotwork. Its tall, stiff, loose-fitting collar was covered with pearls and silver piping.

  The collar makes the robe look old-fashioned, thought Gruffyd. But it’s still impressive.

  “Go-li-â-char!” said the wizard, giving the fabric a shake.

  Luminous spiral fractal patterns were shining with a blue light resembling the glow of Damon’s magestone. Sparkling sapphire patterns pulsed across the robe, looking like a glorious summer sky full of stars.

  Gruffyd swiftly inhaled, then let his breath out slowly.

  “That’s the one to wear, your wizardness,” he said. “It’s spectacular.”

  “Thank you. It was a gift from Princess Seren.”

  “You knew Princess Seren?” asked Gruffyd, his eyes going wide.

  “Of course,” said Damon. “She hadn’t disappeared yet when I came to court. That was probably before your father was born.”

  “It was,” said Gruffyd. People, even barons, married young in the Rhuthro valley.

  “Seren put the powdered magestone dust on herself,” said Damon. “It took her a week to get it off her fingers. She looked like a woad-painted Clan Lands’ barbarian.”

  “If you’re the old Master Mage, weren’t you the one who was supposed to find Princess Seren? How did that go?”

  “That’s a long story, lad. A tale for another time,” said Damon. He stroked his chin again, as if deep in thought, and his eyes seemed to lose focus.

  Gruffyd watched Damon’s expression with concern. It seemed like the old wizard was miles—or years—away.

  “Ahem,” said Gruffyd, clearing his throat loud enough for the sound to echo around Damon’s bedchamber.

  “What?” said Damon. “Oh, yes. The Conclave. Turn around, young man, while I change.”

  Gruffyd executed a crisp about face maneuver. He heard rustling sounds as Damon slid his flying disk off his back, took off the plain robe he’d been wearing, and pulled the sparkly robe over his head. A soft thump marked the old wizard mounting his flying disk. Gruffyd felt a rush of air and turned back. The tapestry next to the fireplace seemed to shimmer for a heartbeat.

  Damon was gone.

  Chapter 28

  Fercha

  Back in her townhouse, Fercha threw herself on her bed, then rolled over to face the ceiling and laced her fingers behind her head. She needed to think, and her current configuration of limbs was her favorite thinking position.

  What was wrong with Dârio being king of both Dâron and Tamloch? He was young, but he had promise, despite his mother.

  Fercha chuckled.

  What was wrong was Túathal and Gwýnnett treating Dârio as a catspaw, she considered. No one, even a king, could be protected completely. Dârio deserved to mature into the fine ruler Fercha thought he could be without the pressure of a manipulative mother and secret father trying to use him.

  She stretched her legs under her robes and tried to pull her toes toward her head while keeping her legs straight. Fercha could feel her calf muscles relax, but the tendons in her neck still felt like tightened steel wires.

  Of course, the same problem of constant night and day protection applied to Túathal and Gwýnnett. Queen Carys and Astrí wouldn’t go along with having either of that charming pair killed, but imprisoning them both in a tower on a rocky island somewhere in the Ocean east of Riyas would serve. Those two of deserved decades with only each other for company. Unfortunately, imprisoning them wouldn’t work.

  Fercha took a deep breath and flexed her elbows up and down like wings.

  It wouldn’t work because Verro would find a way to rescue them. She couldn’t understand why, but Verro loved Túathal, though not in the way Túathal wanted to love Verro.

  She chuckled again. The laugh made her neck less tense.

  Verro could be so insightful, she thought, but couldn’t see something the size of a Bifurland mammoth under his nose.

  Fercha smiled, considering some of the things Verro was very, very good at. The tension behind her eyes decreased and her breathing slowed, then started to speed up when she moved her hands the way Verro moved his when they were alone together. She knew she shouldn’t pause to rest—there was too much yet to do—but release might keep her centered, better able to handle the stress of the Conclave meeting. Her magestone flashed three times in close succession.

  Blast! she thought. Can’t I have a moment’s peace? Can’t I have a moment’s happiness? Would it be so bad if Verro and I could share a bed every night?

  She pulled her shoulders back and sat up, putting both feet on the floor.

  It can’t be helped—and I’ve got to get to the Conclave.

  Fercha was straightening her robes, preparing to gate out to the assembly hall, when four solid knocks landed on the front door three floors down. She crossed to a window with a view of the street, opened it, and leaned out. Five royal guardsmen with striped gambesons were below. One rapped on her door again with the hilt of his unsheathed sword held like a hammer.

  “What?” asked Fercha, her tone suggesting she’d gladly dump the contents of a chamberpot on their heads if she had one at hand.

  “Come to the palace immediately,” said the guard in front with the unsheathed sword. “Princess Gwýnnett requires your presence.”

  “Tell the princess I have other plans.”

  “She said that’s what you’d say,” said the guard. He held up a letter with a dark-blue wax seal. “She told me to give you this.”

  Fercha send down a bubble of solidified sound and took the letter, lifting it up to her window. She opened it and saw seven words written in Princess Gwýnnett’s overly precise handwriting.

  “I need your help,” it read. “Dârio is missing.”

  Chapter 29

  Nûd and Eynon

  Eynon saw a large river ahead. It was every bit as broad as the Moravon near Tyford and far greater than the Rhuthro. From their current altitude, he could also see hundreds of dragonships with their billowing square sails catching the wind, tacking north.

  “Is that the Brenavon?” asked Eynon.

  “If it’s not, there are two Bifurland fleets attacking Dâron,” said Nûd. “At least there’s no trouble figuring out which one is their flagship.

  Eynon looked closer. The lead dragonship was more than twice as large as the others, except for some wider vessels near the rear of the armada.

  “What are those ships in the back?” Eynon asked. “They look like fat dragonships.”

  “I’m not an expert, but I think they’re called knarrs. At least that’s what they were labeled on the woodcut in a book about Bifurland I read in Ealdamon’s library. They’re merchant ships and are probably along to haul back plunder.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Eynon. “I think we may have overlooked something by only bringing fifty pounds of gold.”

  Nûd realized it only a second later. “The value of the treasure the Bifurlanders would get when they sacked Brendinas. That would be a lot more than fifty pounds of gold.”

  “Maybe we can talk them into sacking Riyas instead?”

  “Why would they do that?” asked Nûd. “They’re almost to the city.”

  “I wonder if that’s why the dragon riders were laughing at us?” Eynon considered.

  “Probably,” said Nûd. “Want to change your mind about meeting Sigrun’s parents?”

  “I don’t know if we’ve got much choice about it now,” said Eynon, look
ing up. The girls and boys on dragon-back were crowding Rocky, forcing the big black wyvern down toward the flagship.

  “Can’t you use some sort of wizardry to stop them?” asked Nûd.

  “I could,” said Eynon, “but I don’t want to hurt them. And maybe King Bjarni and Queen Signý would rather have gold without needing to fight?”

  “You haven’t read any of the Bifurlanders’ sagas, have you?”

  Eynon shook his head. There weren’t a lot of books in the Coombe.

  “They glory in battle. I wouldn’t suggest that they’d prefer not to fight.”

  “Right,” said Eynon. “I guess we might as well talk to them. We’ll muddle through somehow.” Eynon called on his magestones to make distance viewing lenses and gave the fleet a closer inspection. “Hey!” he said.

  “What?”

  “The pictures of dragonships in Robin Goodfellow’s Peregrinations all showed them with dragon heads fore and aft. The flagship and the lead ships around it don’t have them, just flat boards above pointed prows and sterns.”

  “Make me some lenses—let me see for myself,” said Nûd. Eynon did and Nûd used them. “You’re right. I don’t understand it,” said Nûd.

  A few minutes later they did understand. The gold dragons had guided Rocky down to the flagship. Room had been cleared for him in front of the ship’s mast. Sigrun and Rannveigr’s dragons landed at the front and back of the vessel, then climbed up and rested on the flat boards with their long necks sticking out beyond the prow and stern, forming living figureheads. The rest of the gold dragons took up similar posts on the other lead ships.

  “Now they look like the pictures,” said Eynon. Nûd moved his chin up and down in agreement.

  Chee jumped down from Rocky’s neck, stole an apple from a basket on deck, and climbed the single mast like a squirrel. When the little raconette reached the top Eynon could hear one long triumphant, “Cheeee!” from above. He wondered if Chee would try to hit someone with the core when he’d finished eating. Eynon would have chastised him for his theft but he was too far above him to hear any reprimand and Eynon had more important things to do.