The Reluctant mage: Fisherman’s children

by Karen Miller

  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.

  “I can try,” she said, and fussed a bit over drowsy Charis so he’d not see her eyes. “I have to.”

  Huddled on the floor beside them, Charis moaned softly and stirred. Her eyelids fluttered open and she blinked in the dungeon’s smoky lamplight.

  “Deenie?” she said muzzily. “What happened? Did I faint?”

  “You did,” said Ewen. “You’re the noddyhead, I say.”

  With a scornful hiss, Charis struggled to sit up. He helped her, and she let him. “Noddyhead yourself.” Then she gasped a little, remembering. “Deenie—”

  She couldn’t look at Ewen. “Don’t fratch, Charis. We’ll find Rafe, I promise. I didn’t drag you with me all the way from Lur to give up. But—”

  The ever-present boiling of blight in her leapt high, stealing her breath, and a moment later the dungeon’s door opened revealing two of Morg’s winged beasts. The crowded chamber thickened with sudden fear as every man, king or commoner, shuffled and kicked and pushed himself as far from the creatures as he could get.

  Every man but Ewen and Robb and Vharne’s other barracks men. They sat stone still, frighted sick but refusing to show it. They were so brave. Bursting with love for them, Deenie reached for Charis’s hand. Chances were she’d soon be dead, with no time to explain.

  Forgive me, Charis. You have to. It really is the only way.

  “Men of the lands,” said the winged beast with brown eyes. “Your kneeling time is come to you. We go.”

  “Men of the lands,” said the other beast. Its eyes were bright blue, vivid as lightning in its flat leathery face. “Disobedience is death.”

  Rustling and shuffling, they got to their feet. The four kings whose lands hadn’t fallen to chaos in the years after Morg’s sundering, they did their best to look royal, set an example for their men. Filthy and terrified, they weren’t very convincing. Ewen looked more a king than all of them put together. Deenie couldn’t take his hand, but she glanced at him from beneath her lashes.

  I’m sorry, Ewen. I wish things could’ve been different.

  The winged beasts stepped back from the dungeon’s open doorway. Behind them, lining the long stone corridor beyond, more beasts. The brutish kind, made for strength and slaughter and little else. She’d seen so many beasts now but she still wasn’t used to them. Every time she saw one she felt fresh sickness curdle through her. Men, they’d been. And women. Sometimes they’d been sprats. Even transformed she could feel their lingering human echoes. Could feel that somewhere inside them lived a spark of what they’d lost. Because Morg couldn’t kill it completely…

  … or because it pleases him to know they suffer. I don’t understand it, Da. He was a man once, an ordinary Doranen. He lived. He loved. How did the man Morgan become the monster Morg?

  The first captive king and his servants were shuffling from the chamber, eyes down, flinching as they crept past the winged beasts to be herded by the brutes along the corridor.

  “Oh, Deenie,” Charis whispered, watching the next king and his men creep out. “I’m frighted.”

  “You are not, Charis Orrick,” she said, desperate. “And neither am I.”

  She and Charis and Ewen and his barracks men were last to leave the dungeon. The winged beasts looked at them, dispassionate, uncaring that two girls were among them. All they cared for, it seemed, was the kings kneeling for Morg. The kings and Ewen, who was his king’s man.

  The chamber they’d been penned inside was deep beneath a soaringly beautiful building at the heart of Elvado. Almost unconscious with exhaustion after the relentless journey from that Brant township to this city centre with its mosaic pool and its splashing fountain and all its colourful, beautiful buildings, still Deenie had been struck by the majesty of the tower—even as its wreathing darkness ribboned cruelly through her blood.

  Now the winged beasts and their brutish underlings herded their panting captives along the maze of dungeon corridors and up ranks and ranks of stairs until they reached the spacious, glimlit ground floor. Then they were herded further, hustled, given no time to catch their breath or ease their aching legs, hungry and thirsty and dazed with pain and fear, into yet another windowless chamber. Brightly lit with more glimfire, its glassy walls and floor were deep black marble. At the far end of the chamber rose a long crimson marble dais. The sound of hesitant human feet on cold stone was loud as they entered. The clack clack of talons and hooves, strong with purpose, was louder. The silence beneath those sounds was crushing.

  More beasts entered behind them, ten with wings, a score without, crowding their captives forward towards the empty crimson dais. The wingless beasts made up for that lack with their horns and their razor-tusks and the claws like curved daggers. Heart thudding hard again, Deenie closed her eyes. The urge to slaughter all of them made her feel sick.

  But I can’t. I need to wait. I’ll kill them when Morg gets here.

  Because that would alarm him. Seeing his precious beasts drop dead without warning would startle him enough that he’d be thrown off course. Jinking him, tossing him sideways, that would give her the chance she needed to UnMake him, properly, the way Da thought he’d done.

  And that’s why I’m here, looks like. It’s why I was born and why I dreamed Ewen. So he could get me to this place, at this time, for me to die killing Morg and make Jervale’s Prophecy come true.

  And it would come true, in a roundabout way. The Innocent Mage was her father. Morg’s death would be his doing as much as it ever was hers, for without him she wouldn’t exist.

  So you see, Da? You and me and Mama and Rafe, we’ll win after all.

  As one, as though she’d spoken aloud, Charis and Ewen looked at her, the same expression on their faces.

  “Girl,” said Ewen, leaning close. “What are you thinking?”

  Even if there was time to tell them, she wouldn’t. They’d try to stop her. And this wasn’t about her, about her life and how she’d hardly lived it. It was about being Asher’s daughter… and doing the right thing. Feeling strangely serene she smiled at Charis, then at Ewen. How terribly odd. She wasn’t frighted. These were her final moments, most like, and all she could think on was how much she loved these two fine people.

  “Ain’t nowt for you to fratch on,” she said softly, being her father’s daughter. “We’ll sink Morg between us, you’ll see. Only I can’t have you both fratching. I want you friends, I do. No matter what.”

  And because Charis knew her too well, she knew something wasn’t right. She opened her mouth to say so—and then said nothing at all, because a section of black wall behind the crimson marble dais slid open and a man stepped into the glimlit chamber. Tall and blonde and slender, he was, resplendent in rich gold and blue brocade.

  Charis nearly swallowed her tongue. Hand clutching, breath rasping, despite the vigilant beasts and the press of bodies around them she took a shocked step forward.

  “Deenie! Deenie! That’s—”

  Lord Arlin Garrick.

  The beasts were hooting and snarling and grunting and flapping their leathery wings, greeting Arlin as though they loved him. The captive kings and their servants huddled together, brothers in dismay. Ewen’s barracks men were muttering. Ewen said nothing, just stood unmoving with his green-gold gaze fixed to the dais.

  “That’s a Doranen,” he said, his voice grinding, almost lost in the louder noise of the beasts. “They’re meant to be died out. Girl, is that Morg?”

  Deenie looked back at Arlin. For a moment, just a moment, she thought—she hoped—it was. But no. Though he was brimful of mage power, all of it was his. Pure Doranen, no blight. Just arrogant, hateful Arlin Garrick.

  Arlin, you toadstool. Did you kill my brother? I swear, if you killed
him I will get revenge. Arlin, I’ll kill you. My word as a mage.

  Her fingers ached to fist, the killing blight blinding in her, but she didn’t dare drop him. So instead she stepped mostly behind Ewen. The black-walled chamber was crowded with humans and beasts but it wasn’t so large she could be easily lost in it and Arlin knew her, sink him. As thin and as dirty and dressed as she was, still he might recognise her. And if he did…

  Charis was jiggling like a pea in a frypan. “Deenie—Deenie—”

  “Clap tongue,” she muttered, burning Charis with a look. The beasts were still dinning the air but they could fall silent any ticktock. “And for pity’s sake stand still.”

  “Girl, is that Morg?” Ewen said again, insistent, as Charis crossly did as she was told. His fingers were round her wrist, crushing the bones.

  “No,” she said. “Ewen, you’re hurting me. Let go. And don’t you dare do a thing to get me noticed.”

  “You know him.” He released her, sounding shocked. Disappointed. With all his grief riding him, it could quickly turn to anger.

  She pressed her palm to his back. Every muscle was rigid. “I promise you, Ewen. That man is not my friend.”

  “But he’s Doranen? And you know him? Deenie—”

  Oh, Ewen. Not now! “I can’t explain. There’s no time. Ewen, be quiet.”

  Robb and the other barracks men were muttering and jostling. They loved their captain so much they were going to get him killed.

  “And quiet your sinkin’ men,” she added. “Our lives hold by a thread, Ewen. Do you want to see it cut?”

  After a moment that lasted a lifetime, Ewen raised a clenched fist. His barracks men fell silent. On the imposing marble dais, arrogant Arlin Garrick clapped his hands for beast silence. Instantly obeyed, he then wrote in crimson sigils on the air and uttered the words of a complicated spell. Deenie felt the air ripple with something vaguely familiar.

  “There,” Arlin said, once the sigils were faded. “And now you’ll understand me. This is to the good. You are brought to this place to lay your lives at the Master’s feet. Forget the past. It is over. Your firefly freedom is dead and gone. There is no purpose under the sun but to serve the Master of Dorana. If you please him he will reward you. If you don’t, you will die. His name is Morg. You know him. He will know you. Think not to hide any truth in your heart, in your liver, in your bones or in your blood. The Master sees everything. The Master knows all.”

  As he paused to let the words sink in, to let the captive kings and their servants mutter and moan and shake with their fear, too terrified to wonder that they could understand Arlin’s threats, Deenie glanced at Charis. She was silently weeping. To see Arlin like this, to hear those words from his lips, she had to know he’d done something to Rafel.

  Her pain was like the sharpest knife.

  Ewen said nothing, his breathing swift and shallow. Deenie took hold of his leather coat with a clutch of her fingers. She wished she could kiss him. She wished she could hug Charis. Morg would be here soon. It was time to prepare.

  Squeezing her eyes shut she reached slowly for her mage-sense, for the odd, reluctant power she’d never fully understood. And there it was, simmering in Elvado’s shadowing blight, full of twists and kinks from her undoing of the reef. How she had hated that, loathed the changes inside her, that had given her the power to wield strong Deranen magic. And now she was grateful. In a strange way Morg would be killing himself. Realising that, she nearly let her mage-sense escape.

  Careful, now. Careful. Mustn’t startle Lord Garrick.

  Summoning her mage-sense like this was like calling fish with a magickless song. But it was working. And Barl’s terrible Words of UnMaking were sitting ready in her tongue.

  “Kneel!” Arlin shouted, startling her. “You paltry kings of vermin lands, you king’s servants, kneel to the Master. Kneel before Morg!”

  Grunting and squealing, punching, slapping, kicking, the chamber’s beasts surged forward and forced them all to the marble floor. Cursing, with no choice but to kneel with Ewen and Charis and Vharne’s barracks men and the rest, Deenie snatched at her mage-sense—but her concentration was shattered. She’d have to start again.

  Then that panel in the chamber’s black glass wall slid open a second time… and another man stepped out of the darkness, into the glimfire light.

  Rafel.

  As the chamber’s beasts burst into fresh howls and shrieks, Ewen felt a shock run through Deenie and Charis as though both girls had been struck by the same bolt of lightning.

  Charis gasped something and lurched forward, intent on pushing through the captives in front of her, but Deenie grabbed her arm. “No, Charis,” she said fiercely, her voice almost lost in the noise. “He mustn’t see us. He mustn’t!” She turned. “Ewen, help!”

  The beasts still clamoured for their Master, heedless of the captives cringing on the floor. Ewen looked to Robb and his barracks men, his grand men, Tavin-trained, and nodded. They knew without a word spoken to move in around him and the girls. As he shoved his way to Charis, bruising his knees on the cold marble, getting an arm tight about her from behind and a hand to her mouth so she couldn’t cry out, he threw another look at the dark-haired sorcerer on the crimson marble dais.

  Dark hair? But Morg was—is—Doranen. What’s happening here, Tav? He’s got the look of Deenie and Charis, I say.

  And why that was he couldn’t begin to understand. But his guts were churning, warning trouble—and his guts were rarely wrong.

  The sorcerer’s weathered face was a mask of ecstasy, as though he pumped a tumble-wench with his seed pouring out. The other man, the Doranen—the man Deenie knows, and how can she? What else don’t I know?—stood aside from the sorcerer, hands clasped behind his back. He stared at the dais beneath his feet, and what he felt for his Master, for the cowering captives, for the beasts or the dreadful noise they made, none of those feelings were on show.

  But he’d think about that later, because Charis was struggling against him. She tried to bite his hand, tried to wriggle free and kick him. He could hold her harder, he could choke her until she dropped. If she didn’t stop trying to bite him, he would. Deenie crushed close, her voice urgent.

  “Please, Charis. We’ll sort this out, I promise. But we can’t if you get us killed. Charis, stop fratching!”

  With a muffled sob the girl Charis gave up. Ewen could feel her warm tears splashing onto his hand.

  “Good,” he said, releasing her. “But girl, I’ll put you down if you danger us with your thrashings. Understood?”

  She nodded, barely listening. “Deenie—”

  “I know,” said Deenie, and she was weeping like her friend, a river of tears pouring down her pale, thin face. “I think this must be like Conroyd Jarralt. Remember?”

  Conroyd Jarralt? Who was he? Churned with a terrible rising suspicion, under cover of the beasts’ still-deafening clamour, Ewen turned on her. “You know him, Deenie? You know Morg?”

  On a shuddering breath, the girl shook her head. “No. I don’t.”

  He could have slapped her. He wanted to. “You’re lying. Don’t lie. Girl, that sorcerer. Is he your brother?”

  And she flinched as though he had slapped her, as though he’d stuck a knife between her ribs. She might as well have shouted yes. “Ewen—”

  “Silence!” said the dark-haired sorcerer on the dais, over the squeals and grunts and groans of his beasts. “Hold your tongues, slaves, lest I be forced to tear them out.”

  His raised fist rolled thunder round and round the chamber. The air beneath its high ceiling curdled into thick black clouds and forks of lightning flickered blue-white and crimson. A painful crackling followed, and hair stirred and stood on heads. The sorcerer laughed as his captives cried out their fear and dropped to their hands on the marble floor before him. His beasts cried out and bowed their heads in swift obeisance.

  Dizzied by Deenie’s betrayal, Ewen pulled his barracks men flat to the floor with a l
ook. Pulled the girls down with him so the sorcerer would have no reason to see them. He wasn’t about to die because of her.

  It’s her brother, he is. The sorcerer’s her brother. How can that be, Tav? And how did I let her mage me like this?

  “I am Morg,” said the sorcerer. “You will call me Master. You and your offspring have forgotten me, but I have not forgotten you. There was a man, once, who thought he’d killed me. He was wrong. He is dying. When it suits my purpose, I’ll see this mistaken man dead.” His ravenous gaze slashed around the chamber. “Any creature who denies me will join him. Any creature who denies me will lead the way for him. You are called here to remember me. Who are the summoned kings among you? Stand now. I would know your faces.”

  Utter stillness. And then one bold, foolish man found his feet. He was fat, olive-skinned, and his bald head was covered with ink. His thin nose was pierced with many small blue gemstones. He wore a dirty blue silk tunic that reached to the floor.

  “I am Ranoush,” he said, his voice nasal. “The Tarkalin of Ranoush.”

  The sorcerer smiled at him. “I am Ranoush, Master.”

  His fist clenched again and the Tarkalin of Ranoush fell to the floor, howling, even as new thunder rumbled and forks of crimson lightning threatened to tear the thickened air to shreds.

  “On your knees, Ranoush,” said the sorcerer. “And bow your head to me like a proper slave.”

  Piteously groaning, blood dripping from his pierced nose, Ranoush’s ruler fumbled back to his knees. The blue silk tunic rippled with his shudders.

  “Master,” he said. He was choking on his own blood.

  Ignoring him, Morg again savaged the chamber with his eyes. “That is one. There is more than one before me. Kings, I can gift you with such pain you will never know yourselves after. On your feet. On your feet. While you can still stand.”

  There was no hiding. There was no escape. Feeling his barracks men’s fear for him, Ewen breathed out a sigh and stood, and the other captive kings stood, and the beasts with wings prodded them between the other cowering captives until they joined kneeling Ranoush at the foot of the dais, before the sorcerer Morg—Deenie’s brother—and the Doranen who served him. A man Deenie knew. One by one they were forced to kneel again. High above their heads, the sorcerer’s conjured clouds writhed.