Couric rested a hand on Rob’s shoulder. “Those coins are a mere token. When our people rule Caithe, we shall divide its riches amongst ourselves, taking our rightful due as God’s stewards. I’m hoping for a dukedom myself,” he added enticingly. “Perhaps if you prove a loyal and worthy servant to the Sage, he shall reward you with a post in his court—or even more.” Couric carefully omitted any mention of Dickon’s reward, and for good reason. Unless Dickon developed the power himself, whatever came to him would be solely from the benevolence and charity of the Lorngeld.
“There can be no doubt of the outcome of this battle,” Couric concluded. “Caithe cannot hope to stand against an army of wizards—especially if her only weapons are corbal crystals. You can stand with the victors within the space of a year, Rob. The whole of Caithe will be ours for the taking; no landless mercenary hired to sack a wealthy city has ever been promised so much reward for so little effort.”
Rob thought for a moment, pensively rubbing a coin between his thumb and forefinger. Then, his decision made, he folded his hand over the small circle of silver and gripped it tight. “When do you move?”
Ignoring Dickon’s dazed look of dismay, Couric smiled in sweet victory. “When the Sage arrives to lead us,” he replied, adding an inward prayer that the Sage would survive his ordeal under the sealing spell and arrive in Caithe whole and strong… and reasonably sane. Couric pushed back his stool and settled his cloak about his shoulders. “But don’t worry—it will be soon, my friend. Very soon.”
Bidding his new ally good night, Couric slipped out of the tavern and melted into the shadows. He walked at a rapid pace through the winding streets of Delfarham, hoping to reach the sanctuary of his bed before the invigorating effects of the pastle seed wore off and left him weary.
He would see Rob again; he was confident of that. With a self-satisfied grin, Couric thought of the great number of men and women he had approached over the past few weeks whom he expected to see again. The Sage had been right all along: Caithe was ripe for full-scale rebellion, and those who had lost faith in Athaya Trelane had shown little reluctance to follow another—especially one who promised far more than the outlawed princess of Caithe had ever done.
Couric whistled softly as he strolled across the cobbled square in front of Saint Adriel’s Cathedral. The place will need rechristening, he mused, skimming his gaze along the length of the church’s massive spires. Once he ascended to power in this land, the Sage would not tolerate any house of God to bear the name of Adriel, the man responsible for instigating the so-called sacrament of absolution: the bane of the Lorngeld—and the death of them—ever since the Time of Madness.
Then Couric turned his eyes to north, where the lamplit towers of Delfar Castle rose serenely into the clement night. Enjoy these times of peace, your Majesty, he thought, as a baleful smile spread slowly across his face. Before the cold winds blow again, Caithe will have a new king—a wizard king. He let his gaze drift off to the west, toward the distant Isle of Sare. And every corbal crystal in your treasury will not keep him from your shores.
Chapter 2
“How long is Master Hedric going to be in there?” Athaya asked impatiently, pacing back and forth across a spartanly furnished chamber in the south tower of Belmarre Castle. Nervous fingers picked at the fraying sleeve of her homespun kirtle, and she glanced to the stairwell with rhythmic regularity, as if waiting for news of an imminent birth and expecting a physician to appear at any moment and declare the new arrival a boy or a girl.
Seated at a walnut table cluttered with books and scrolls and leather tubes, Jaren looked up from the fragile slip of parchment he was reading. “Hedric’s only been in with him for half an hour,” he said, content to temper his own concerns in the absorbing pursuit of knowledge. “Give it time.”
“Time is one thing Nicolas may not have,” Athaya replied, snapping a loose thread from her sleeve. “And it’s been so long already.”
Forcing herself to stop pacing for a while, Athaya leaned against the windowsill and gazed out at the lush, rose-scented expanse of late spring surrounding the steward’s tower. It had been a cold and snowy night in February when she had delivered her brother Nicolas into Adam Graylen’s care; now it was a hot and languid June. The world had undergone a thorough transformation, but sadly, Prince Nicolas had not.
More than four months had passed since the Sage of Sare ensorcelled her brother, coercing the Caithan prince to murder his elder brother and king, Durek. He was confident that the atrocity would be blamed on Athaya—which it had been, she thought with a scowl—thus neatly destroying the reputations, if not the very lives, of nearly every legitimate claimant to the Caithan throne. But even the Sage proved vulnerable to error. Under his sway, Nicolas went so far as to offer the tainted wine to Durek, but his inner self rebelled against the crime he was about to commit, and he was able to resist the spell long enough to break the brunt of its force—and slap the cup from Durek’s lips before he took the fatal sip. But the defiance cost Nicolas has sanity, leaving him little more than a child, in need of constant care and with few memories of the prince he had been, or the king—and kingdom—he had almost destroyed.
Athaya whispered a private prayer as she turned her back on the verdant swells of earth before her. Only Master Hedric and his decades of mystic learning could save her brother now.
After a grueling hour of waiting, during which Athaya had yanked an entire handful of loose threads from her sleeve and scattered them like rushes on the floor, she heard a fragile sigh and saw Master Hedric emerge from the stairwell leading to the bedchamber above. Slate-colored robes hung listlessly from his frame like curtains in stagnant air and he leaned heavily on his gnarled cherrywood staff.
Athaya let the last strand of wool fall from her grasp. “How is he?”
“Resting quietly.” Reading the agitation on her face, he added, “Just let me sit a moment before we talk. I’ve done what I can for the moment, but I’m a bit tired.”
Athaya nodded, stamping down her impatience. She had waited months already; she could wait a few minutes more. Moreover, she should be grateful that Master Hedric was here at all. When Jaren had returned to his Reykan homeland to find out what he could about the spell of compulsion—a spell long forbidden by the Circle of Masters because of its inherent unscrupulousness—Athaya assumed that Hedric would simply share what knowledge he possessed and send his instructions back with Jaren. She was stunned by Hedric’s unexpected arrival three days ago; at seventy-one, travel was a burden to him, and his decision to return with Jaren made Athaya all the more fearful. Nicolas’ situation was dire indeed if Hedric thought it required his own personal attention.
“I’m sorry if I’m rushing you,” she said by way of apology. “I never should have insisted that we leave for Belmarre the very day that you arrived from Reyka. You must be exhausted by now, after close to a month on the road.”
“Oh, I’ll manage,” Hedric replied, summoning a crooked smile as he rubbed the fatigue from his eyes. “I’m not as old as all that, you know.”
Once, Athaya would have chuckled her agreement and thought no more upon it, but now she bit her lip and remained silent. Master Hedric had aged noticeably since she last saw him in October. His movements were slower and more studied, his eyes in need of brighter light by which to peruse his myriad books and scrolls, and Athaya soon discovered that she needed to speak a shade louder if she didn’t wish to repeat herself. Although far from a young man when he began to instruct her in the ways of magic two years ago, Athaya never thought of the Master as old before—his keen wit and vitality had always neatly distracted her from the fact. But now that vitality was ebbing, and it was a weight upon her heart to realize that his star would not burn forever.
Athaya’s eyes flickered briefly toward the spiral stair. “May I see him?”
“You can look in on him, but try not to wake him. Our first session was somewhat… difficult. He needs rest.”
“With respect, Master
Hedric,” Jaren observed, “I think you both do.”
While Jaren set about making his former teacher a cup of chamomile tea, Athaya ascended to her brother’s bedchamber. The weathered door creaked only slightly as she entered and gave a wordless greeting to Adam Graylen. Despite carrying almost as many years as Hedric, he was neatly tucked in the windowseat like a boy, paging through a book of rudimentary magic that Hedric had loaned to him so that he could better understand the nature of the prince’s illness. Adam was the longtime steward of the earl of Belmarre—one of Caithe’s few lords who, while reluctant to support Athaya openly, could be trusted not to betray her or Nicolas’ temporary presence in his domain. Athaya smiled wistfully as she passed by the older man, seeing as she ever did the image of his long-dead son Tyler, beloved to them both, in the depths of those tranquil green eyes.
She curled up on an oak chest at the foot of Nicolas’ bed and gazed at him, his skin delicately pale against the deep blue coverlet. Light brown curls were combed neatly back from the smooth cheekbones, and he slumbered peaceful as a babe, breathing slow and deep. That alone was a striking change for the better. Nicolas no longer tossed fitfully, tormented by the seductive voice of a Sarian wizard whispering murder in his mind.
The voice was still there, but it was silent for now.
Assured that he was at peace, Athaya slid off the chest and went to his side, laying a gentle kiss atop his forehead. She jumped when Nicolas’ eyes fluttered open in response; he had not been sleeping so soundly after all.
Nicolas was not startled by her presence; her kiss had convinced him she was a friend. A friend… but nothing more; her brother’s eyes were devoid of recognition. “Is he coming back?” Nicolas murmured drowsily, his voice sandy from disuse.
“Who?”
“The old man that was here.”
“Yes,” Athaya said, forcing a smile. “Yes, he’ll be back.”
Nicolas nodded contentedly. “My other friend hasn’t come yet. He’s a wizard, too. He laughs a lot and tells stories. Mostly dirty ones.”
Athaya tried valiantly not to betray any glimmer of despair. “I’m sure he’ll come as soon as he can.” If he’s still alive, she added privately. Ranulf had fallen captive to the Sage on the same day as Nicolas and had not been seen or heard from since. The onetime mercenary was Sarian-born, so Athaya doubted the Sage would kill him outright, but who could say whether he would ever leave the island again?
“Do you live here, too?” Nicolas asked through a yawn.
Athaya pursed her lips tightly to keep them from trembling. Hedric had eased Nicolas’ suffering, but Nicolas himself was still astray, lost in the dark mists of his memory. “No. I’m just visiting. I’m a friend of the old man, too.”
“Oh.” Satisfied with her explanation, Nicolas rolled over and promptly drifted back to sleep.
Athaya blinked back a tear as she retreated from the bedside. At least he wasn’t in pain, she reminded herself. At least the Sage hadn’t destroyed him fully.
“Good night, Nicolas,” she whispered.
When Athaya returned to the lower chamber, Master Hedric was visibly refreshed by both his tea and his moment of rest. The deep worry- lines on his face had smoothed back into mere wrinkles, and his eyes had regained some of their sparkle.
“That’s as peaceful as I’ve seen him since it happened.” She poured herself a cup of tea and joined Hedric and Jaren at the table, passing her eyes over the staggering array of books and scrolls that they had brought with them from Reyka. “It looks as if you brought your entire library.”
“Not exactly,” Hedric replied. “Some of these are from my own collection, but most came from the archives at Wizard’s College in Tenosce. I told Overlord Basil what I was looking for and he set a small army of students to the task. Basil has only a small circle of intimate friends,” Hedric felt obliged to explain, knowing how rare it was for the normally irascible wizard to do anything so magnanimous, “but he counts Prince Nicolas among them.”
Hedric picked up one of the older scrolls and smiled. “Confidentially, I suspect that our bounty is partially due to Basil’s ‘volunteers’ being too terrified to come up empty-handed. In addition to the spell of compulsion, Basil’s contingent of scholars turned up some references to the Sarian cult—specifically the prophecy that spawned them—and a bit about the Rite of Challenge by which they choose a new leader. Basil brought the lot of it to Ath Luaine scarcely a fortnight later and even offered to fill in for me at Osfonin’s court while I’m gone.”
Jaren grinned broadly. “I suspect Lord Basil is happier about that arrangement than his Majesty. Osfonin respects his rank as Overlord of the Circle, but thinks Basil is rather… well, stuffy.”
Hedric emitted a dry chuckle. “Osfonin has always been a shrewd judge of character. Oh, that reminds me,” he went on, turning to Athaya, “Prince Felgin sends his fervent hopes for Nicolas’ recovery. He wanted to pay a personal visit, but Osfonin is quite serious about keeping his eldest son close at heel until he’s safely married. And Queen Cecile is endearing herself to Osfonin—if not as much to Felgin—by spending her days in exile helping the prince make his choice of bride.”
Athaya’s smile was bittersweet, glad that the Caithan queen was making the best of her unfortunate situation. Cecile and her two children had fled to the sanctuary of the Reykan capital once it was no longer safe for them in Caithe. Not only would the Sage be a threat to young Prince Mailen—if he was willing to murder Durek, why not Durek’s heir?—but Cecile’s well-known friendship with Athaya had spurred the Tribunal to suspect her involvement with the attempt on Durek’s life. Rather than offer explanations that the king and his Justices were in no humor to hear, Cecile chose to flee. In Reyka, at least, she could teach her son and daughter not to despise the Lorngeld for what they were. Under Durek’s guidance, they would learn nothing so charitable.
“Will she be happy there? It might be a long time before it’s safe for her to come home again.”
“She is content. The Reykan court has always proved a hospitable shelter to runaway Trelanes,” Hedric remarked, the twinkle in his eye reminding Athaya of her own exile there less than two years ago. “If she has one regret, it is the fate of Lord Gessinger. She yearns for word that he is alive and well.”
Athaya nodded in empathy; she would like to receive the same news herself. After acting as a decoy to ease Cecile’s escape, Mosel Gessinger had been imprisoned in Delfar Castle and, like Ranulf, not heard from since.
“But Cecile is not as eager to return as you might think,” Hedric added. “Before Jaren and I left, she sent a letter to Durek, telling him in rather pointed terms that she would not have her children raised in a land defiled by the Tribunal’s brand of justice, and that if he continued to abuse the Lorngeld and not let them live in peace, then she and the children would return to Caithe only upon news of his death.”
“I’d hate to think that his death is the only solution to this problem,” Athaya said solemnly. Over the years, she had argued with Durek, cursed him, struck him, and been thoroughly infuriated by him, but she had never wished him dead, no matter what he, his Tribunal, or even the Sage would have the Caithan people believe.
Athaya pushed Durek to the back shelf of her mind; Nicolas was in far greater danger of death than his Majesty was at the moment. “Now that you’ve seen Nicolas for yourself, what can you tell me about the spell of compulsion?”
“Not much you’ll want to hear, I’m afraid.” Hedric looked away, tapping his fingertips together as he carefully phrased his explanation. “The spell acts like a net around Nicolas’ mind, constraining its actions. The Sage’s thoughts are psychically grafted onto Nicolas’ own. If this spell is any indication of his talent, then the Sage is a master indeed. That he is an adept is indisputable. It’s almost impossible to tell where Nicolas’ own thoughts leave off and the Sage’s begin.”
“But if you can distinguish between the two, doesn’t that mean you can remove the
Sage’s?” Jaren asked.
“That’s not as simple a thing as it sounds. If I try to eliminate the Sage’s thoughts, I might very likely snip out many of Nicolas’ as well. Such dabbling can be very dangerous. Despite all we know of it, the human mind is still an abyss of mysteries. I could inadvertently do far worse damage than the Sage did.”
“Worse?” Athaya exclaimed, appalled by such a prospect. “I hardly think that’s possible.”
“No? Think, Athaya. What if I mistakenly plucked out that part of Nicolas’ memory that tells him not to wrap his hand around a hot iron, or the deeper part that reminds him to keep breathing at night?” Hedric paused, allowing her to absorb the unpleasant implications. “It is these types of errors that disturb me… and they are shockingly easy to make.”
Athaya stared absently into her teacup; the fragrant liquid was still reasonably warm, but she had suddenly lost her appetite for it. “Then nothing can be done?”
Hedric shook his head in regret. “Nothing permanent. I think the wisest course of action would be for me to help him live with his affliction. I can loosen the threads of the compulsion, but I think it would be extremely foolish to try to unweave them entirely. No, the spell must be removed by the Sage himself. Or removed indirectly, by his death.”
“Or by Nicolas giving in to the compulsion and doing what the Sage wants him to,” Athaya said, noting the last gruesome—and least desirable—possibility.
“Yes,” Hedric granted, “but I sincerely doubt that will happen—not at this late stage. The brunt of the spell’s force was broken at Nicolas’ initial refusal to obey. The spell is still there, obviously, and much of Nicolas’ mental energies are occupied with resisting its pull—thus his childlike state and loss of memory. But by loosening the Sage’s grip, I think I can keep Nicolas comfortable and lucid and perhaps restore his memory somewhat. It will be an ongoing task, like having to dust once a week to keep the shelves clean.”
The Wizard King Page 3