The Wizard King

by Julie Dean Smith

  An instant later, her nostrils were filled with the heady scent of pine and her feet found security on the cool flagstone floor. But just as she cracked open her eyes, a black cloud loomed up before her, obscuring the edges of her sight. Athaya reeled from the aftershock of translocation, dizzy as if from too much wine.

  Jaren caught her before she could fall and lowered her slowly onto the pallet. “Athaya? Are you sick?”

  She closed her eyes for a moment, opening them only after the last remnants of vertigo were under control and she didn’t feel at risk of fainting. “That’s strange,” she breathed. “It hasn’t hit me like that since before my power was sealed.”

  “You haven’t used the spell in a while,” Jaren suggested. “Maybe you’re just out of practice.”

  But Jaren’s tone betrayed a lack of faith in the easy explanation and Athaya harbored similar misgivings. She recalled something that Hedric had said to her when she first told him how the seal had augmented her power. He had likened the sealing spell to the mekahn and theorized that being too close confined with her own magic had recreated the same kind of internal pressure. But bursts of strength almost always fade after the mekahn, he had said. This talent of yours? It might last; it might not.

  Holding her breath, Athaya cupped her hand and attempted to conjure a witchlight. Her power was sluggish to respond; a full minute later, her palm held nothing more substantial than a dim red spark, no larger than an ember plucked from a dying fire.

  “Hedric warned me this might happen,” she said quietly, trying not to reveal how frightened she truly was. “My magic is starting to fade back to its former level. The effects of the seal were only temporary.” Athaya squeezed her eyes shut. She should have expected this, but had grown so accustomed to her increased abilities that the idea of losing them seemed more remote as each day passed. “But why now?” she cried, pounding the wall with her fist and then mouthing a curse at the resulting pain. “If the Sage comes—”

  “Athaya, don’t get ahead of yourself. You were tired when we left—this could be an isolated incident. But even if it isn’t, you’re still an adept, same as the Sage.” Then he leaned over and offered her a kiss of encouragement. “And didn’t the Sarians’ own prophecy say that you wielded ‘powers unseen since the days of the ancients’?” he reminded her, widening his eyes in mock amazement.

  His efforts managed to elicit a grudging smile. “All right, I see your point. God knows I have enough to worry about already without making myself crazy over this, too.” Athaya propped herself up against a pillow and took a deep breath to steady herself. “Maybe this is just God’s way of settling the score. After all, if the Sage and I were both adepts, then having my power extended by the seal might be construed as cheating. This way, the sides are even.”

  “Even,” Jaren echoed soberly, as a shadow passed over his face. “But in readiness for what?”

  Chapter 3

  “But it simply isn’t possible!” Drianna exclaimed, as she hurriedly trailed the Sage’s steward up the spiral stair to his Grace’s bedchamber. Gossamer skirts of pale blue silk floated on air in her wake and she hastily tucked the last wayward tendrils of auburn hair beneath a beaded chaplet, having barely finished her morning’s ablutions when Tullis’ urgent summons had arrived.

  “I speak the truth, my Lady. He was up at the crack of dawn, calling for his breakfast, demanding parchment to write with, summoning his tailor, his treasurer—and you, of course—not to mention a dozen other things. I’ve never seen him so energetic. It’s all any of us can do to keep up with him.” But while it should have been resoundingly good news, the stiffness in his bearing betrayed Tullis’ concern that not all was well with the Sage of Sare.

  “But you only released him last night!” Drianna persisted, her tender lower lip bearing a crescent-shaped mark where her teeth had bitten down upon it in perplexity. “He’s not supposed to recover this quickly. Princess Athaya did, yes, but only after being delirious and near death for three weeks.” Drianna began to nibble on the tip of her thumbnail. “I don’t like this, Tullis. I don’t like it one bit.”

  Tullis paused at the top of the stair, grasping the wooden railing with a blue-veined hand as if to steady himself. “No, my Lady. Neither do I.”

  She followed the rest of the way in silence, thinking back to the fateful day when the Sage’s trusted servant had laid the sealing spell upon him, imprisoning his awesome powers within the cramped confines of his mind. ‘Castration of a sort,’ Brand had jokingly called it, ‘but not near so final.’ He had hidden his fears well, but Drianna knew Brand had harbored them. Still, he wanted more power and this was the only way he knew to obtain it. He refused to be outmatched by a woman half his age and knew that only Athaya Trelane stood between him and the Caithan crown he believed himself destined for.

  Drianna pulled her ruddy brows together in a frown. She had never minded his jealousy when she was the object of it, but now it galled her that he would risk his life for an extra measure of magic. Even Tullis had advised him against such folly, though he had been swiftly rebuked for the presumption. Was Brand so uncertain he could win Caithe without extending his already considerable talents? And he was not satisfied to seal his power as long as Athaya had… no, he insisted upon remaining sealed for a full week longer to better ensure his superiority.

  Tullis halted just out of earshot of the pair of guardsmen posted near the bedchamber door. Their presence was a mere formality, of course; as the most powerful wizard in Sare, Brandegarth of Crewe was fully capable of defending himself if the need arose. And none of the island’s wizards would dare attack him without submitting a formal Challenge first. At best, such an omission would be the height of rudeness; at worst, it would be blasphemy—a slap in God’s almighty face.

  “You should know one other thing before you see him,” the steward cautioned her. Drianna’s look of alarm prompted him to continue with haste. “His Grace is not ill—not physically,” he amended, “but he is not the same man whose magic I sealed four months ago. The changes are not always obvious, but they are there.”

  Drianna bit down on her lip again, this time drawing blood. “Something’s gone wrong, hasn’t it? I’m no wizard, but I know this isn’t how it’s supposed to be.” In her erstwhile role as spy at the princess’ camp, Drianna had unearthed as many details as she could about Athaya’s ordeal, memorizing every word and nuance so she could report it to Brand when she returned to Sare. “Jaren and Master Tonia both said that after her fever broke, Athaya was herself again. She had stronger magic, of course, and a bit of memory loss… but her personality hadn’t changed at all.”

  “I know. But I also recall your saying that the princess’ powers were released all in a flood, overpowering the two wizards trying to assist her. That was probably the cause of her illness. It took myself and two others to hold the stone back long enough to allow his Grace’s sealed power to seep out gradually, but we did not lose control. Still…” Tullis bowed his head, sending a thin strand of white hair drooping over his brow. “It disturbs me how completely different his Grace’s reaction is to that of the princess. The fact that he wasn’t even the slightest bit sick or tired makes me suspect that the poison of his confinement hasn’t fully drained. He seems more restless now. Less deliberate in his thoughts and actions. And…” His voice trailed off a second time as he labored to find the right words. “He seems—how shall I say it?—drunk on his own existence. Exhilarated, as if he’d sniffed a bit too much pastle seed. Death has Challenged him and lost,” Tullis finished, with far less enthusiasm than the remark should have merited, “and his victory makes him giddy.”

  “Perhaps these changes will fade in time,” Drianna suggested hopefully, pushing Tullis’ unsettling news to the back of her mind. “A few more days may see him back to normal.”

  “I hope so, my Lady. Magic requires mental disciplines as well as raw power. If he sacrifices the one to gain more of the other, he’ll be no better off—an
d could end up worse. It could make him careless… and that could kill him as easily as any sealing spell.”

  Drianna nodded solemnly as they progressed to the bedchamber door, passing by her own former lodgings on the way. Until recently, she had occupied the spacious chambers adjoining the Sage’s own—a natural arrangement, of course, considering what they were to one another—but as his days under the sealing spell progressed, Brandegarth had grown increasingly volatile and violent; even after securing his master with a binding spell so that he could not leave his rooms, Tullis advised Drianna to move to another wing of the palace so that the Sage’s constant shouts, moans, and senseless nocturnal soliloquies would not upset her. It was difficult to leave his side, but not so difficult as listening to him suffer through self-induced pain day after day and knowing she could do nothing to ease it.

  This morning, however, the Sage was silent. The storm had blown over; now all that remained was to see what damage it had done.

  “Will you be joining us?” she asked Tuilis. “I’m sure that Brand would be glad to share his breakfast with you and thank you for casting and releasing the sealing spell so smoothly.”

  “No, my Lady. His Grace asked me to deliver the prisoner to him right after I’d fetched you.”

  Drianna’s brows shot up in surprise. “What? Isn’t it far too soon for such a confrontation? Ranulf Osgood is no adept, but Brand says he’s still a capable wizard. And he’s had four whole months to nurse a grudge—he’ll try to kill Brand again the moment he sets foot in that chamber.” She began to wring her slender hands, increasingly agitated. “And if Brand isn’t fully recovered—”

  “We’ve plenty of guardsmen to protect him,” Tuilis reminded her gently, “and I shall be there, too. One mercenary, however capable, is no match for a palace full of Sarian wizards.”

  Drianna acquiesced with a half-smile of relief. “No, I suppose not.” She bade the steward a brief farewell and for the first time in several weeks stepped gingerly into her lover’s chamber.

  The day would be unseasonably hot away from the shore, but the sea breezes were kind to the Sage’s palace, and the chamber was sweet with salt spray and the lingering scent of cinnamon. Scattered crumbs and a slick of melted butter were the only evidence that the silver tray on the bedstand had ever contained the dozen oatcakes provided for the Sage’s breakfast. But despite the seeming calm, the chamber still betrayed signs of the Sage’s ordeal; Drianna was certain that the ugly scratch across the sideboard had not been there four months ago, nor the jagged rent in the brocade bedcurtains, now stitched tightly closed like lips vowing never to speak the horror of their abuse.

  The Sage of Sare paced to and fro before the open window, ebony hair rippling gently in the breeze, and stroked his freshly shaved chin as if working out a solution to a most intricate problem. He was clad only in simple trews and boots—a sweat-soaked shirt had been tossed into a careless heap on the floor—and wore his customary adornments: a pounded silver torque, a single dagger-shaped earring, and a heavy arm-ring snug upon each bicep. He had grown slightly thinner during his ordeal, and his skin had lost some of its bronze luster, but in all her days, Drianna had never seen him look so handsome or so regal. Truly, the man was a king already… what matter that he did not yet have a crown and country to prove it?

  “Brand?”

  He flicked a glance to her without breaking his rhythmic stride. “What took you so long?”

  “I—” Drianna bit back an overwhelming desire to scold him. Was that the first thing he would say to her since his awakening? Steadying herself, she made every effort to remember what Tullis had said. Perhaps it was not Brand himself that spoke so, but some shred of the sealing spell that still clung stubbornly to his mind.

  “How do you feel?”

  Brandegarth stopped in his tracks and flung his arms up to the heavens. “Why does everyone in this infernal palace keep asking me that? I feel fine. I feel more than fine.” He threw his head back and began to laugh, deep from the belly. “In fact, I’ve never felt so damned fine in all my life!”

  With both relief and a shade of apprehension, Drianna moved to embrace him, but he distractedly pushed her aside. “We’ve no time for that now, Drianna. We have work to do. Here, take this.” Ignoring her wounded stare, he snatched a sheet of parchment from his writing table and shoved it into her hand. “Sit over there and write down everything I say. I have tried to do it myself, but my thoughts run far beyond my fingers today, and I end up with naught but pages spotted with inkblots.”

  Drianna stood paralyzed, gaping at him stupidly and unable to contain her shock at his callous treatment.

  “Now!” he scolded, as if she were a novice kitchen maid too slow at serving his dinner. His tone did not invite argument.

  Drianna scurried to the enameled desk, her vision swimming from the tears burning in her eyes, while the Sage began spewing out plans for the army of wizards that Couric and his other servants were hiring for him in western Caithe. Names of men, names of cities—most of which she could not spell—numbers, magic spells, and a host of other disjointed information. Unfortunately, Drianna’s talents did not include that of scribe, and the Sage did nothing to make her job easier; his thoughts were forever tumbling over themselves, and his sentences came out in bits and pieces, leaving her to divine his meaning.

  Drianna sniffled miserably. He remembered all these infernal names and places well enough… how could he have forgotten her?

  Distracted by both her injured heart and her urgency to write down everything he bade her, it took a moment for her to realize that Brandegarth had stopped talking. She glanced up warily to see him staring out of the window, listening to the sea wash upon the shore as if it murmured poetry to him.

  Then he turned back to her, his gaze piercing clear through her soul. “I have touched God, Drianna.” His voice was hushed, as if he imparted the greatest of secrets. “He has spoken to me… through His angels.”

  Drianna put down her quill. Was this true, or was it only some remnant bit of madness; a side effect of the spell? “W-what did they say?” She wasn’t sure whether the Sage was delusional or not, but she thought it best to humor him regardless.

  Brand’s expression darkened. “They warned me not to encroach upon His secrets.” Then, as soon as it had come, the darkness on his face dispersed like woodsmoke in the wind and his eyes glinted with enchantment. “Ah, but perhaps there is one secret that He has imparted to me for my valor, eh, Drianna?”

  He favored her with a wickedly sly grin. “You thought I had forgotten, didn’t you?” he said, pointing a finger at her in mock accusation. “How could I? It was the chance of obtaining this particular power that drove me to be sealed in the first place.”

  Drianna’s heart fluttered wildly, but to her surprise, she felt a powerful urge to flee his presence. Ever since they had become lovers when she was a mere girl of sixteen, Brand had promised her that if she were to become a wizard, then he would marry her—as Sage, he explained, he could not marry anyone unblessed by God. They waited for the mekahn to manifest in her, but they waited in vain. At twenty-four, it was still possible that she carried the potential for magic, but inwardly, Drianna knew that the chance was growing more remote with every passing day. And after eight years of waiting, Drianna realized she would gladly wait another eight years to avoid hearing the wrong thing.

  “Are you going to do it now?” she asked, half-expectant, half-terrified.

  Brand chuckled lightly. “Let us not get ahead of ourselves. I want to be sure that I have the power first, and then, once I know what to look for, I will test you.” He touched a finger to her chin, lifting it up an inch. “I shall not risk error with you, my love.”

  Then he clasped her face between his palms and kissed her hard; four months of waiting was contained in that single urgent encounter, and it left Drianna dizzy and bruised and breathless with rapture.

  With an explosion of energy, Brandegarth strode to the door in
three long strides and flung it open, sending it crashing back against the wall. “Come!” he shouted over his shoulder. He dashed off at a gallop and was halfway down the corridor before Drianna could rouse herself to follow.

  Hiking up her skirts, she scrambled after him in haste, almost missing a step at the bottom of the great stair leading to the courtyard. He was traversing the yard like a man eager to pass the news of his newborn son, hurrying past the armory and bastle-house, buttery and brewhouse, sending a half-dozen hens, two milkmaids, and a cat scurrying out of his path as he finally disappeared into the palace stables. By the time Drianna caught up with him, wheezing at the effort, he had emerged again and sought a new destination. A stableboy poked his head out of the doorway after him, shaking it in bewilderment.

  Drianna trailed the Sage into the kitchens, catching up again just as he lurched across the threshold like a stallion bursting free of his stall. Cooks and scullery maids busily wiped flour and grease from their faces in an attempt to look respectable for their lord, and one young girl hastily swept her worktable clean of onion skins. While everyone in the palace knew by now that the Sage was free of the sealing spell, they had no more expected to see him up and about—much less darting about the castle like a madman—than they would have thought to see a new mother hop on a horse and take a ride around the island within an hour of giving birth.

  “Where are the youngest?” he asked them, scanning the puzzled faces before him. “Those less than nineteen. Don’t be shy—I won’t bite them. Bring them forward!”

  One by one, the youngest girls were prodded forward by the older women and placed in a disorderly line, like a squadron of soldiers about to undergo inspection. The girls fidgeted anxiously, rubbing at spots of grime on their aprons or twirling locks of hair around their fingers. Then, one by one, the Sage reached out and brushed against their minds; he placed his hands on their temples and breathed deep, scrying their souls for the sign. If he did not find what he sought after several minutes, he sent them off with a mumbled word of dismissal.