“The wizards who attacked us claimed not to be among her followers, sire,” Parr pointed out. Disbelief was clear upon his face, but it was his sworn duty to report all that he had seen and heard. “One cannot trust the words of a wizard, of course, but these men called the princess a traitor to their kind.”
“A—?” The king’s brows shot up as he flirted with laughter. “At least we share an opinion on that, if nothing else,” he replied. Curtly, he motioned his captain toward the door. “Fetch in this wretched mayor of yours… what’s his name again?”
“Lafert, sire. Joseph Lafert.”
At the captain’s summons, a harried-looking old man scurried into the solar. White hair sprouted from his skull in bewildered clumps and his nose twitched like a squirrel who has just spied a hoard of acorns. He favored his king with a low and wholly ungraceful bow. “Thank you for allowing me into your presence once again, your Majesty,” the mayor of Eriston said, feverishly wringing a pair of blue-veined hands. “These are dire days indeed, and it is heartening to know that your Majesty takes such an active interest in the troubles of his—”
“What’s all this about corbal crystals not working?” Durek replied, squelching the man’s flow of flattery before it curdled his mood even further. He patently believed Parr’s tale, but wished to hear the mayor’s version of it nonetheless.
The old man’s nose twitched again. “Y-yes, sire. The captain has the right of it. These eyes may not see what they used to, but I saw that well enough. Not even God’s holy gems could stand against them, your Grace. They’re the Devil’s own brood, that much is sure.”
At Durek’s bidding, Lafert recounted how the wizards had appropriated his house several weeks before, and how, despite the best efforts of both the town’s militia and the soldiers summoned from the neighboring shire of Nadiera, nothing would dislodge them.
“How many of these wizards are there in Eriston?” Durek asked his captain.
“I saw roughly a dozen at the house itself,” Parr replied grudgingly, furious that his squadron had been bested by so few, “but there are rumors of over a thousand men camped in the fields to the east. I passed near the area on my way out of Eriston, but saw nothing.”
Durek’s face turned as bleak as the rainclouds hanging low in the sky above them. “None of us has ever seen one of Athaya’s camps, either, but we all know they exist. Her people hide themselves with spells and trickery.” He flicked a hasty glance of dismissal to the mayor. “If there’s nothing else, then you may go.”
Lafert cleared his throat, politely informing his sovereign that there was indeed something else, and the wringing of his hands became even more frenzied. “Actually, sire, if I could… I was hoping that…”
“Yes, yes,” Durek growled impatiently, whirling his hand in a circular motion to speed along the man’s request. “Spit it out.”
“I beg you to send more men, sire. My home must be liberated from these sorcerers!”
“More men?” The king arched his brows. “After losing nine of my best soldiers already? I doubt your town house is worth such a price, sir.”
“But the citizens of Eriston are terrified, sire… the ones that haven’t already been seduced to the enemy’s side. And the Sage’s men are everywhere—”
“Wait—the who?” Durek felt his stomach sink a little; he had heard the name before, some months ago, but had dismissed it as yet another of his sister’s colorful fabrications.
“The Sage, sire,” Lafert repeated, eyes darting about the solar as if fearing the words alone were enough to summon the man himself. “The Sage of Sare.”
Durek sank back into his chair and scratched at his scrubby beard with one of Cecile’s combs. “Again I hear this name.” Then he folded his brows into a grim frown and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Maybe she wasn’t lying after all.” He fired an exasperated glare at his captain, pointing the ivory comb at him as if it were a dagger. “Why didn’t you mention that before?”
Rarely admonished by his king, Captain Parr was temporarily flustered. “I… that is—”
“One wizard is much like any other,” Lukin remarked, rescuing the captain from his discomfort. “It hardly matters what title their leader bestows upon himself.”
“I wonder.” Durek’s gaze returned to the beleaguered mayor of Eriston. “Tell me… this ‘Sage’ and his followers. Are they in league with my sister?”
“I-it’s hard to say, sire.” Lafert stopped wringing his hands long enough to turn the palms up in a gesture of ignorance. “Myself, I doubt it. The Sage’s men do not speak well of her at all.”
Durek snorted dryly as he drummed his fingertips noisily on the table. “Few people do.”
“They say she cheats the Lorngeld by not telling them their true destiny. They believe that their magic is a gift from God—of all the absurd notions!—and that they deserve to rule Caithe by right of it.”
“To rule—” A ghostly chill rippled down Durek’s spine. Yes, Athaya had warned him of that, too.
He opened his mouth to draw breath, readying a string of curses that, curiously, never came. It was too puzzling by half, the idea that Athaya had actually been forthright with him. He wasn’t about to trust her—that would be going too far—but perhaps he had misjudged her by some small amount. Unless, he mused, her honesty was all part of a ploy designed to make him place false trust in her. But when had his troublesome sister ever been so shrewd?
“Did you hear this as well?” he asked his captain.
“These traitors say that you are not our rightful king and that it was their duty to provide the chosen one. They seem to think it’s this leader of theirs.” Parr sniffed his contempt for the man, reclaiming a bit of lost dignity. “He seems an arrogant boor.” But behind the insult, flung from a safe distance, was the knowledge that the Sage could have killed him without half an effort; the ugly burns striping his flesh were proof enough of that, and they had been dealt by an underling, not the Sage himself. “He styles himself a king already; fine clothes, jewels—even a silver coronet.”
“Upstart,” Durek huffed, although there was profound concern behind the snub. He waved his hand as if to clear the room of an unpleasant variety of incense. “Leave us now,” he said to the mayor and his captain. “I wish to discuss this matter privately with Archbishop Lukin.”
Although Lafert yearned to ask whether more men would be sent to reclaim his house, he dutifully let Captain Parr usher him from the room. The solar was quiet for a long time once the king and his archbishop were alone, utterly still but for the steady sheeting of the rain against the windowpanes. To his dismay, Durek found the gloom even more oppressive than it had been an hour before.
“Jon?” He asked the clergyman’s views with that single word, but did not immediately receive a reply. Durek arched a brow; never had he seen the zealous clergymen—or any priest for that matter—at a loss for words.
“Troubling news indeed, sire. These wizards clearly know some sort of spell that protects them from the gems. But how could it be so?” he added, addressing the dim recesses of the ceiling as if asking the question more of God than of Durek. “If the Lorngeld know of such a trick, then why did they not use it to save themselves during Faltil’s scourge two centuries ago?”
“Perhaps they thought mass-slaughter was their destiny at the time,” Durek replied sarcastically. He tossed the ivory comb back amid the ribbons and beads in Cecile’s basket. “Or perhaps they have only recently figured out how to do it. Whichever it is, we have a problem.”
“Surely Faltil’s crown would stop them,” Lukin pronounced, nodding approvingly at the idea. “I know precisely where it is. One of your sister’s people told me. Right before he died.”
Durek leveled him with a glare. “That’s just fine, Jon. If you can think of a way to steal that damned thing back from the heart of Athaya’s camp, then go do it.”
Lukin muffled his ire as best he could, thinking it prudent to change the subject. “The mayor blames the
loss of his home on this mysterious wizard from Sare, but I would wager every coin in the treasury that your sister is behind it all. This ‘Sage of Sare’ is nothing but a soldier in her pay—a mercenary hired to do the foul deeds she does not wish the Caithan people to know she commits.”
Durek was only half listening to the archbishop’s speech, distracted by how well Athaya’s story fit together with recent events. “If Athaya was working with this Sage to undermine me, then why didn’t she kill me given the chance? She came to my bedchamber shortly after Nicolas was arrested and never laid a hand on me—she certainly could have done away with me if she’d wanted to. And for all her damnable preaching,” he added reluctantly, “she never has tried to steal my throne.”
Lukin whirled to face him, utterly scandalized. “Majesty, do not let her trap you in her net of spells as well! Remember the fate of Prince Nicolas. And what she might have done to Mailen…” The archbishop did not elaborate, but merely shook his head solemnly and allowed the king’s imagination to provide the suitably lurid details.
Durek looked away, picking absently at the frayed ends of one of Cecile’s hair ribbons. Yes, he was outraged at his son’s abduction; how dare Athaya steal him from his home as if he were nothing more than a string of beads from the queen’s sewing basket. And although Durek would have preferred to keep Nicolas under close scrutiny—he did try to kill his sovereign, after all—it upset him far less than the loss of his beloved son and heir. But worst of all was Cecile’s letter; God, did she really fear him so? He had crumpled the letter up in fury with every intention of burning it to ash, but each time he moved to do so, he smoothed the creamy parchment out again, reading yet again his wife’s declaration that she would never return to Caithe as long as he was bent on systematically murdering his subjects.
“Athaya didn’t harm the boy,” Durek replied grudgingly, after a time. “Cecile said as much in her letter. She also told me that it was her idea to have him abducted, although I suspect she was only saying that to protect Athaya.”
“Most certainly,” Lukin agreed swiftly. “She has long been deceived by your sister’s machinations. But how can we be certain that the boy is unharmed? You’ll recall that Prince Nicolas did not try to murder you the very moment he arrived in Delfarham. Your sister could have put a spell upon the boy to murder you twenty years from now.”
Durek shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He tried not to think of Mailen; it pained him far too much. And even he did not think Athaya would dare endanger the boy; not when she could have taken his life with ease months ago, rather than merely spiriting him away. “These wizards—no matter who is leading them—will aggravate an already unpleasant situation, Jon. The people grow hateful toward me. Though most still accept that the Lorngeld must be controlled, they grow weary of the Tribunal and what its existence has spawned. My councillors report far more violence and outlawry in their shires now, and—”
“Sire, surely you are not reconsidering your decision? You are God’s anointed servant doing His divine will; you must not falter now! To betray any misgivings at such a delicate time could be disastrous to your young reign.”
Durek glowered; he disliked being interrupted and disliked even more being accused of weakness. It pricked him where he was most tender, reminding him that, despite his best efforts, he was not the brilliant leader Kelwyn was.
‘Take care, Jon. You may be Archbishop of Delfarham now, but I am still your king, and it is not your place to scold me like a pageboy. I would advise you to remember that.”
Lukin’s features shifted imperceptibly, eyes simmering with resentment. “Of course, Majesty.”
“I wished to suggest the very real danger that some of these malcontents may join the Sage in his bid for power as a way of taking revenge on me for foisting this Tribunal upon them.”
Durek raked his eyes over his archbishop’s attire; the man seemed as much a Devil’s Child as any wizard in those coal-black robes with their blood-colored chalice device. At that moment, he began to suspect he’d made an error in judgment—not about the Tribunal exactly, though he had always harbored doubts about it—but about nominating Jon Lukin to the Curia as successor to the recently vacated archbishopric. Daniel Ventan had been tiresome, but at least he could be bullied. He would not have proposed something as drastic as a Tribunal, nor dared make his king feel less capable for not sharing his opinion in all things.
“What will you do?” Lukin inquired. His tone was civil but unmistakably cool.
Durek steepled his fingers, hardly able to believe what he was about to propose. “I could appeal to Reyka…”
“With respect,” Lukin began, careful to keep his distress properly reined, “I believe that Osfonin would bring down the walls of his palace with laughter at the mere thought of aiding us. Not after you were so violently against Athaya marrying his son two years ago. Caithe has had no formal relations with Reyka in close to two centuries, and they’ve already shown an appalling lack of respect for you by opening their borders to any wizards desiring to flee a proper and lawful absolution.”
“He’d help soon enough if Athaya asked him,” Durek muttered. “Oh, but why ask for trouble? There are too many cursed wizards in Caithe already.” He spat out the words by force of habit, but there was little genuine bitterness behind them.
Durek rubbed his eyes with his fists like an exhausted child.
It was barely noon and already he felt as if he had been awake for days. Nothing in his reign—or his life—had prepared him for this and there was no one he could turn to for advice.
Why now? he groaned inwardly. No king of Caithe had ever faced such a crisis—an army of wizards out to rob him of his kingdom and the inexplicable failure of corbals to repel them. Caithe had known war before, of course, but never like this; never so seemingly one-sided and indefensible. He sighed deep from the soul, suddenly feeling ill-equipped to handle such a conflict so early in his reign. Briefly, he wondered what he could possibly have done to deserve it.
Solemnly, Durek looked to the ruby signet ring on the first finger of his right hand; the ring of kingship, inherited from his father.
What would Kelwyn do?
Durek scowled, curling the hand into a fist. He knew perfectly well what his beloved father would do. He would let these foul wizards go about their business of sending Caithe to the Devil as long as they didn’t try to steal his throne.
But they have tried, Durek reflected. And it is only a matter of time before they do so again.
And they might not have tried to steal it at all, came another voice from even deeper down, if had allowed them some measure of mercy in the first place.
Durek’s scowl shifted to a frown of bafflement. Despite his father’s radical idea of bringing the Lorngeld back into the fold of humanity, the people loved him. That simply made no sense at all.
“Perhaps this is God’s way of testing our faith,” Lukin suggested, concerned by his king’s moody silence. “If we can defeat even wizards such as these, then we will have won a victory greater than any other in Caithe’s history.”
Durek threw up his hands in exasperation. “Defeat them how?”
“I do not know. I shall pray diligently for guidance. Fear not, sire. God is sure to send us a solution.”
Durek slouched even further into the cushioned chair, reaching past the sewing basket to run his fingers across Cecile’s prized chessboard—a wedding gift from Kelwyn. The black and white courtiers had grown dusty at their posts; Cecile had not touched the board since she last played with Athaya, almost a lifetime ago. Absently, Durek plucked up the white queen and studied it. The features were cold and unmoving, the eyes without love or life.
“Leave me now, Jon. I need to think on this alone.”
Lukin’s robes brushed gently against the carpet as he approached. “Sire, might I suggest that you do your thinking elsewhere?” Somehow, the archbishop’s voice managed to be courteous and condemning at the same time. “It ill becomes
you to sit about her Majesty’s solar brooding like a rejected suitor over her absence. Not when suspicion still remains that she could have conspired with Athaya to—”
“That will be enough, Jon,” Durek snapped back, setting the chesspiece down with enough force to make its companions tremble. “Again you scold me like a child, though you disguise it as wise counsel. Cecile has been gone from me for near two years and I cannot help but think on her at times; she is the mother of my children and I—” He balked, changing his choice of words at the last minute. “I regret her absence.” He glanced disparagingly at Lukin’s clerical garb. “I hardly expect you to understand.”
Lukin bristled at the backhanded insult, but was not so careless as to argue with the king in his sulking state. Only the slight flare of a nostril and the subtle tightening of his jaw revealed his displeasure.
“Tell Captain Parr to send two squadrons back to Eriston with Lafert,” Durek went on. “But not our best men, mind—have Parr recruit them from Gorah. Country soldiers will be better with longbows and I think it wise that they attack these wizards from a distance. It may be sneaky and dishonorable, but an unexpected arrow in the back may be the only thing that works against these wizards.”
Lukin nodded his blessings on the plan, thinking nothing dishonorable about an arrow in the back when dealing with creatures of the Enemy. “And if they fail?” he asked, keenly aware that such was the likely outcome.
“If they fail,” Durek echoed sharply, baring teeth like a cornered hound, “then you’d better damned well hope that God has answered your prayers, because I’ll be fresh out of options.”
Lukin inclined his head wordlessly, confident that the Almighty would cooperate in a timely manner once He knew which of His servants was calling, and stalked imperiously from the chamber.
Blessedly alone, the king of Caithe moved to his window, looking out upon the bustle of high summer in Delfarham. Carts laden with foodstuffs rumbled over silvery, rain-slick cobbles as merchants extolled the virtues of their wares, criers called out the day’s news, the bells of Saint Adriel’s placidly chimed the hour. The city went about its collective business, ignorant of the storm brewing to the west. But even if his people knew of it, they would trust in their king to keep them safe. Durek had vowed to do just that at his coronation, in traditional exchange for his subjects’ fealty.
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