The Wizard King

by Julie Dean Smith

  After he had tested seven of the assembled twelve and found nothing, Drianna sensed that his temper was growing thin. He was so desperate to possess the ability, Drianna feared that if he did not, he would seal himself for an even longer time and surely kill himself in his quest for power.

  But as he cupped the head of the eighth girl, a sallow-faced drudge smelling of onions, he finally found what he sought. His eyes snapped open, and his face glowed as if he had just been gifted with a visitation by an angel. “Ah! Blessed child!” he cried, kissing the grubby creature full upon the lips. “You carry God’s mark! What is your name? How old are you?”

  “P-peg, your Grace,” she stammered, still reeling from his unprecedented show of affection. “An’ I’m almost fifteen.” Openmouthed, Peg stared at her lord with a curious mix of delight and terror, but if the girl thought him mad, Drianna mused, she knew better than to say so.

  The Sage embraced her warmly, as if she was his long-lost heir. “The seed is within you, Peg. You are one of God’s chosen people. In a matter of years, you will come into your magic and will rise up in this world.”

  Peg’s eyes grew round as the onions she had been chopping for the evening’s stew. “How do you know?”

  The Sage smiled down on her with the benevolence of a saint. “God has given His secrets to me as reward for my devotion,” he said. “If you prove yourself worthy one day, Peg, then perhaps He will do the same for you.”

  He abruptly dismissed the remaining four girls. They crept back to their tasks, some visibly glad for the reprieve and others disappointed that their future would not be told that day. The Sage bestowed a bow of respect upon Peg as he backed dazedly out of the kitchens; the moment he was gone, Drianna saw the other girls cluster around Peg as if she were a new bride, chattering congratulations on her auspicious future.

  “I have it,” the Sage murmured, as he staggered drunkenly across the courtyard. “I have the power. It is so simple! A shining seed in the darkness… one only needs the power to see it and then it is so clear… like a pearl on black velvet, or a lantern in the night. Lord of my people, I thank you,” he went on, lowering himself to one knee on the graveled walk. “I thank you for allowing me to share your knowledge of who has Your favor and who does not.”

  He struggled back to his feet, still intoxicated by the grace he had been granted. “Athaya will suffer for this… for keeping this power all to herself. When the Caithan people find out—”

  “She thought it was wrong to use it,” Drianna explained from behind him, though why she felt obliged to do so vexed her. “She couldn’t possibly test everyone in the kingdom, so leaving things alone seemed the fairest thing to do. Especially in Caithe, where telling someone they’re a wizard is the same as passing a death sentence on them.”

  “Then more the fool she.” But rather than enter into another debate over Athaya Trelane’s views on the ethics of magic, Brand motioned Drianna to follow him back to the tower. “Come, Tullis will have brought Ranulf to my chamber by now. After I have dealt with him, we will see what waits in your future.”

  “Brand, are you sure it’s a good idea to see him?” she asked as they reached the foot of the great stair. Her mouth went dry as she spoke; Brand hated it when she questioned him—especially when it had anything do with magic—but if Brand still bore some lingering trace of his ordeal, then Ranulf would be quick to take advantage of it. He was one of Athaya’s staunchest allies and knew the threat the Sage posed to her work. “You should be resting, not overexerting yourself so soon after—”

  “Bah! I am strong enough for anything.” He raised tight fists over his head, flexing the muscles on his bare arms and back. “By God, Drianna, I could Challenge one of God’s own angels and win right now!”

  Drianna’s hand flew to her mouth, expecting lightning to strike him dead that instant. “Brand!”

  But his blasphemy was forgotten as they returned to the Sage’s bedchamber, where Tullis and two guardsmen kept silent watch over Ranulf Osgood. The prisoner was thinner and paler now—and somewhat damp, Drianna realized—but still a powerful man for his forty-odd years. Drianna suspected he could have wrestled almost anyone in the palace to the ground, with possible exception of Brand himself. Ranulf had been kept in reasonably honorable confinement—he was the enemy, but as a wizard, he deserved a certain amount of deference—and had suffered from little more than boredom these past few months.

  “Please pardon his appearance, your Grace,” Tullis said, turning a critical eye to Sage’s captive. “He has not elected to bathe for months and… well, I had to insist that he do so before seeing you.”

  Brand laughed merrily at the sight of Ranulf’s sopping red hair sticking out in all directions; he looked like a wet cat and surely bore the same temperament. “Ah, Ranulf. It is good to see you again.”

  The mercenary made a hawking sound in the back of his throat. “Sorry I can’t say the same.”

  Drianna could see the hatred in the man’s eyes, burning them hollow from within. But Ranulf was not a stupid man, and she saw caution simmering there as well. Ranulf was born and bred on Sare, trained as a soldier in the same mercenary company as Brand, but while Brand had remained on the island, Ranulf had sold his services to the civil war in Caithe. When his magic came upon him soon thereafter, he had ended up in Reyka instead of Sare, and was therefore never properly educated to revere the Sage or his island cult. But he knew of it and knew enough to tread carefully within its leader’s abode.

  “Him I can understand,” Ranulf said to Drianna, flatly ignoring the Sage’s presence for the moment. “He always had a cesspool for a soul, even back in the corps. But you! Athaya was kind to you, even though you drove her to distraction with all of yer babbling and fawning. And this is how you repaid her.”

  Drianna felt her cheeks tingle with heat. Although she had omitted the fact from her report to Brand, she had actually come to like the Caithan princess and enjoyed acting the part of lady’s maid to her.

  “She did only as I asked her to,” Brandegarth pointed out in her defense. “And you must realize that my plans for Caithe were preordained. Little that Drianna told me could have changed them.”

  The Sage dismissed the two guardsmen with a flick of his wrist, but bade Tullis to remain. Then he paused, silently appraising his captive. “Don’t you even want to know why I’ve sent for you?”

  Ranulf sniffled crudely. “You’ll get to it. Far be it from me to rush you, your Grace.”

  “No need to be so suspicious, my friend,” Brand replied, overlooking the mercenary’s mildly baiting tone. “I sent for you to tell you that you are free to go.”

  Ranulf studied the Sage without blinking. “Just like that?”

  “Almost. You may leave on the condition that you perform one simple task for me.”

  Ranulf ran stubby fingers through his fresh growth of red beard and snorted. “You lock me up for four months and expect me to do ye a favor? That’s rich.”

  “It is a small thing. When you leave here, I imagine that you will go directly to Athaya Trelane and tell her everything that has transpired here. All I ask is that you add one more thing to your report.”

  Drianna detected the mercenary’s muscles relax slightly; when he had been imprisoned, he knew only that Nicolas was about to be bound by a spell of compulsion. He was clearly relieved to know that the spell had not been crafted to induce the prince to murder his sister, Athaya. But what it had induced him to do, he as yet had no idea.

  “What did you do to Nicolas?”

  Brandegarth waved his hand negligently. “Old news, my friend. Athaya will tell you about it when you see her, I’m sure.” He made a clicking sound with his tongue. “A most unfortunate turn of events, I’m sorry to say.”

  For a man of his bulk, Ranulf was deceptively quick. Rage flared anew in his eyes, burning away all his former caution, and he lunged at the Sage with a growl of untempered fury. “Tell me, damn you!” Shunning weapons of magic, Ra
nulf was content to tear the flesh from his enemy’s body with his bare hands.

  With ineffable calm, Brandegarth held up his right hand, palm facing his attacker. “Salvum fac sub aspide!”

  Drianna had seen the Sage cast a shielding spell many times before, but never to such spectacular effect. She expected a shower of blue sparks to deal a stiff but harmless shock to the prisoner, but this time, the instant Ranulf’s flesh touched the invisible shield, the room blazed with sparkling white brilliance like sunlight on the sea, temporarily blinding her. Her ears rang to the point of pain from the loud pop that followed.

  When her vision cleared, she saw Ranulf sprawled flat on his back, limbs splayed in abandon like a starfish washed up on the sand. His eyes were open and glassy, his body motionless. Beside him, the normally imperturbable Tullis stared in wide-eyed shock, shaken to his soul by the awesome power that had just been unleashed.

  The Sage bent down beside Ranulf, slack-jawed with astonishment; clearly, he had not expected his spell to carry such force. His eyes shifted and he stared at his empty palm as if he had never seen its like before.

  “Is he dead?” Drianna asked, kneeling beside the fallen man. Black spots danced before her eyes in the spell’s aftermath. “Brand, did you—”

  Ranulf’s groan of misery announced that he was alive, but not particularly glad of it at the moment. “I can’t move…”

  It took several minutes before Ranulf’s numbed limbs tingled to life again and he could sit up without toppling over. He cast a furtive glance at the Sage as he swiftly reassessed the odds of winning a fight. Finding them heavily weighted against him, he tossed a scathing glare at Drianna, content to blame her for everything.

  Still preoccupied by the stunning bolt of power he had summoned, Brandegarth flexed his fingers and curled them into a fist. “Nicolas is alive,” he murmured absently, resuming their conversation. “Or at least he was the last I heard. I’ve been somewhat out of touch.” Then he let his hand fall to his side, bracing it against his thigh like a sword ready to be drawn again at the slightest need. “Now, as to the message I wish you to carry. It is simply this: tell Athaya I have come. By the time you reach her, I shall have touched the shores of Caithe.” The Sage graced him with a thoroughly evil smile. “Her people do not trust her as they once did—a pity!—and they need a new leader. I plan to provide them with one… one who can offer them far more than your pious little princess.”

  Before Ranulf’s addled brain could think of a suitably acrid retort, the Sage gestured to his steward. “Tullis, escort this man to the front gates. Give him food for the journey and enough coin to hire a ferry to the mainland.”

  Drianna saw the bitter reply poised on Ranulf’s lips. But he swallowed it like sour wine, realizing that the Sage could snuff out his life like a candleflame if he was angered, thus leaving no one to warn Athaya of his plans. Ranulf had not survived all those years as a mercenary soldier without learning the wisdom of retreating from a hopeless battle.

  Unnerved by his lord’s show of strength, Tullis took the prisoner’s arm and hurried him away, almost as glad to be gone from the Sage’s presence as Ranulf himself.

  “He should reach Athaya’s camp in about a fortnight,” Drianna observed quietly. “Do you really plan to be on the mainland so soon?” She would have preferred him to remain on Sare and rest for a few weeks to make certain he was fully recovered from the sealing spell. But the faraway glory in his eyes convinced her that he would do nothing of the kind.

  “I can wait no longer, Drianna.” His smile was enigmatic. “My people need me.”

  Then he took her hand and led her to the edge of his great feather bed. He patted the fur-lined coverlet beside him, and when she settled at his side, he cupped her face between his palms and kissed her gently. “And now, my love, shall we scry your future?”

  Again, Drianna felt torn between wanting to know and wanting to shrink from that omnipotent touch. The moment they had long awaited had come; the moment that would determine the course of their remaining years. She fought down the queasy feeling in her belly and tried to think only hopeful thoughts. The prospect of marriage was entrancing enough, but when he won his prize… why, then she would become queen of Caithe! Not a bad accomplishment for the daughter of a poor peasant and sister to a swineherd.

  “Look inside of me, my love,” she whispered at last. “Look… and tell me what you see.”

  Drianna closed her eyes and waited, her heart hammering wildly in her chest. At first, she felt nothing but the warm flesh of his hands upon her face, but then came the feather-light touch of his presence, brushing the insides of her mind, searching for dormant magic.

  One simple test, she thought. And if she passed—and she simply had to!—she would belong to him forever.

  She remained silent and did not move. Why was it taking so long? It had been much quicker with Peg. Although the chamber was cooled by sea breezes, Drianna began to perspire; droplets of sweat trickled down her back, itching terribly, but she didn’t dare to scratch. A minute more and she was close to fainting.

  Then he lifted his hands, and Drianna cracked open her eyes. Brand didn’t have to say a word; the look on his face as he drew away from her said it all. It was a look not of bleakness or despair, but of… nothing. His face bore no emotion at all.

  “I see nothing, Drianna.”

  Suddenly, Drianna was grateful she’d not eaten that morning; sour bile crept up to the back of her throat. “No, look again! You must have done it wrong… you must have overlooked something!”

  “I am not mistaken.” His voice was cold, and there was a hint of warning in it; a warning not to question his abilities again.

  “I suspected this,” he went on, rising to his feet. “God has seen fit to elevate me, but not to grant you power. You are not worthy to be my wife; He has decreed it, and we must live by His will.”

  He turned his back to her and went to retrieve a clean shirt from his wardrobe. “You may stay here in the palace, of course. Provided we find some work for you to do. I’ll speak to Tullis about it. Perhaps the cook can use another hand.”

  Drianna blinked disbelievingly. Cook? Work? Now she knew he was mad…

  “But I thought I was coming to Caithe with you.”

  Brand quashed the notion with a curt shake of his head. “I need trained wizards at my side, Drianna. You would be of no use to me.” He tossed the shirt over his head and turned to go.

  “No, don’t go—not like this!” She sprang from the bed and grabbed hold of his wrist with desperate strength.

  “I have more important matters to attend to.” His voice remained steady and indifferent. “I have a kingdom to secure. Couric and the others have been heralding my arrival for months. It’s time I fulfilled their prophecies.”

  He peeled her fingers from his wrist as if removing brambles from his shirt and swept out of the chamber.

  “Brand, please!” She stumbled to the threshold after him, gripping the doorjamb for balance, the chamber a ship pitching in rough waters. “Come back!”

  He didn’t even slow his stride as he rounded the corner and vanished.

  Drianna staggered backward dizzy with shock; he had been cut from her life like a severed limb, and she was fast bleeding to death.

  Alone in the spacious chamber, Drianna crumpled into a miserable heap on the floor. Hot tears scalded her cheeks and left ugly dark spots on her pale blue skirts. Eight years at his side, eight years in his bed, and she was dismissed as perfunctorily as an incompetent scullery maid! With a few spoken words, Brand had plunged her back to the depths from which he had raised her; a fish too small and insignificant to bother saving for one’s meal. And someone like Peg—a common drudge!—had the chance to take her place at his side.

  In less time than it had taken to choose her dress that morning, her entire world had burned to ashes. She had been summarily rejected—by Brand as well as God, who had refused to gift her with magic—and now there was nothing
left. She could never remain on Sare; after such humiliation, she could not bear to face another soul in this palace. And if she could not be mistress of this place, then she would not be anything at all.

  The inside of her eyelids felt coated with sand as she wiped away her tears and rushed from the chamber, ignoring the politely unseeing eyes of the guardsmen in the corridor. She was going to Caithe whether the Sage liked it or not.

  And if he did not want her at his side, then she would find someone else who did.

  Chapter 4

  “You’ve almost got it,” Athaya said, keeping her voice and unobtrusive so as not to break the young man’s concentration. She stood directly behind him in the sun-mottled clearing, lightly supporting his elbows with her hands. “Keep the flow of power steady or you might lose control.”

  Focusing fiercely on his task, Girard struggled to balance the two turbulent jets of green fire streaming from his hands, looking as if he clutched a pair of blazing snakes and was trying to keep them from curling back to bite him. The deadly fire flowed less freely from his left hand—as a permanent reminder of how serious the king’s Tribunal was about eradicating wizardry in Caithe. Girard’s maimed left limb bore five ugly stumps instead of the once-agile fingers of a carpenter. It took great effort for him to direct more power through his left hand while curbing the flow to his right, and fat beads of sweat formed on his brow as he strove to keep the coils in balance.

  “That’s good,” Athaya whispered, feeling the heat of his efforts against her own skin as well. “Now make the coils do your bidding. Remember that you control them, not the reverse.” Silently, she hoped he would heed that counsel better than she once had; fortunately for him, Girard didn’t have to contend with the same disruptive memories as those that haunted her own thoughts day after day.