Athaya rose slowly to her feet. Here, with barely a yard between them, it was difficult not to strike him for what he had done to Nicolas. But she had to tread carefully; Brandegarth of Crewe was the more powerful wizard now, and the arrogant glint in his sea-green eyes told her that he knew that as well as she did.
“I wasn’t certain when,” he continued, gazing languidly at the white clouds drifting by overhead as if considering altering their placement in the sky to something a bit more pleasing, “but I knew you would come. Sooner or later.”
His words hung heavy with pride, but Athaya would not be baited. “You remember my husband, Jaren.”
The Sage flicked him the briefest of glances. “I do.”
Circling behind Athaya, the Sage picked a rose and began pulling its petals off one by one. Surprising as it seemed, Athaya got the distinct impression that his full attention was not on this meeting, but he was instead looking beyond it to a far more important event.
“You could have saved yourself the walk and spoken to me in Coakley today,” he observed. His mouth curled up at her silent blink of surprise. “I saw you at the window of the church. Your husband’s cloaking spell isn’t very good,” he confided with mock covertness. “The air around him was shimmering. I lifted the pewter bowl to catch his reflection and saw you standing beside him. Your spell is near perfect. But then, you are an adept like myself, so this is not surprising.”
“Your Grace—”
The Sage tossed the now-naked stem aside. “I imagine that in addition to the rite of anointment, you also saw me foretell that man’s future—the one imprisoned in the green.” His gaze became a challenge. “You are not the only one to whom God has granted His gift of foresight; not the only one with whom He shares the secret of who His children are.”
“It is wrong for us to know such things. Just because we can do it doesn’t mean we should.” But even as she spoke the words, Athaya knew they would fall like seeds upon dry ground. Rhodri had never heeded such advice; why should the Sage, whose ambitions were far more grand?
The Sage snorted indelicately. “I expected you would say something like that. It has the oppressive ring of Reykan philosophy to it.”
Athaya fixed a hard gaze on him. “You will not have the power forever.” She had long debated whether to reveal that knowledge, but had eventually concluded that it would be better for herself—as well as Caithe—to plant the seed of doubt in the Sage’s mind, hoping to convince him to back away from using the gift so publicly rather than keep her loss a secret and have it forever misconstrued as a deliberate refusal to aid her people. “That power has faded from me… as it will from you, in time. What the sealing spell has given you is only temporary.”
I can only hope, she added privately.
The Sage tucked in his chin condescendingly. “I should have known you would have a ready excuse. It is a most convenient explanation for why you refuse to share your gift with your fellow Caithans. But even if what you’re saying is true,” he went on, patronizing her with every syllable, “then do not blame me because God has decided that you are no longer worthy of His gift. You did not use it to its proper purpose and so He took it from you.”
Athaya felt her cheeks grow hot, appalled at the ease with which the Sage twisted the facts to suit his pleasure. “But you’re only using the gift to further your own ends!”
“Yes,” the Sage agreed, “I am. But my ends are God’s and that makes all the difference.”
Athaya squeezed her eyes closed in outraged exasperation. She never would have believed it possible, but talking to the Sage was even more infuriating than having a conversation with Archbishop Lukin.
“But let us get to the point,” the Sage continued, growing bored with their dispute. “I gather you have come to Nadiera to bargain with me? To offer me something so that I will take my army and return to Sare?”
“I offer nothing but reason, your Grace.”
The Sage smiled thinly. “Then you offer nothing that I do not already have, your Highness.”
Then, without awaiting her reply, the Sage spun on his heel and stalked away from her, bellowing for refreshment. With startling speed—the kind borne of fear rather than devotion—an old woman appeared in the garden with a tray of cakes and three pewter cups. She set the tray on the marble bench, not daring to meet her lord’s eyes, and scuttled nervously away.
The Sage took a cup from the tray on the edge of the bench. “Will you take some cherry wine? I find it rather sweet, but it suits a summer afternoon far better than whiskey.”
Athaya gazed at the remaining two cups of dark liquid, remembering Durek’s treacherous brush with death six months ago. “Thank you, no,” she heard herself saying, bristling noticeably. “I fear you might have compelled someone to poison it.”
Athaya sensed Jaren go rigid beside her, bracing for a backlash, but the Sage merely arched his brows in unison, amused by her impertinence rather than insulted. Idly, he glanced into the bowl of his cup. “Not this time,” he remarked.
“What you did to Nicolas was inexcusable!” she cried, even knowing that the Sage would never feel inclined to offer up excuses for anything he did.
The Sage drank half his wine in one gulp, rolling it around his tongue before swallowing. “What you’re doing to your own people is no less unconscionable, your Highness. You rob them of their God-given rights. I had to get your attention somehow.”
Athaya scowled at him. “And so you did. But you needn’t torment him any longer. Please,” she said, close to choking on the entreaty, “free my brother from your compulsion spell. He is no threat to you.”
“No,” the Sage granted with a shrug. “He never was. But he was spying on me, Princess, and for that he must be punished. Prince Nicolas shall stay as he is until I rule here—or until I die. And I assure you that I have no intention of dying until I have served as Caithe’s king for many fruitful years.” The Sage plucked a pastry from the tray. “You seem to forget that I did give you a chance to save him,” he pointed out, absently flaking off a bit of burned batter from his cake. “Had you joined me when I asked you to, your precious brother would be at your side right now.”
“But for how long?” Jaren challenged, increasingly nettled by the Sage’s offhanded manner. “To get what you want, you’ll have to murder her entire family eventually.”
“Not necessarily. As God’s chosen servant, it is my duty to be merciful when I can.” His gaze drifted back to Athaya. “You do have certain charms, Princess,” he remarked, with what Athaya deemed a distasteful degree of intimacy. “You might be able to persuade me to simply exile the royal family under the condition that they neither attempt to return nor gather an army to make war on me.”
“Exile me if you like, your Grace, but I will never leave Caithe.”
The Sage drained off the rest of his wine and exchanged his empty cup for the one Athaya had spurned. “You wouldn’t have to. As Dameronne said in his prophecy, you are doubly blessed—the carrier of royal blood and divine power. You would have the most exalted of places at my court.” His eyes grew shrewd and vaguely unkind. “Accepted and admired, as, I gather, you never were under your father’s rule. And still are not, under your brother’s.”
The truth stung deep, as he knew it would. In the face of all her accomplishments, the old hurts of her youth still thrived beneath the surface of her soul—the lingering shame of being an unworthy member of her family. As a girl, her shame had been refreshed each day by Dagara’s shrewish words, Durek’s cool detachment, and Kelwyn’s soul-deep disappointment, blaming her for her mother’s death and betrayed when she did not grow up to be like his beloved Chandice in every way to somehow replace what she had stolen in the fatal act of being born.
“You cannot buy me, your Grace.” Athaya had to force the words out, but they came, and her voice did not break.
“I do not wish to,” the Sage replied simply. “What you fail to understand, your Highness, is that I am only act
ing in accordance with the divine order of things.”
To illustrate his words, he stepped back and swept his right hand out in a wide arc, conjuring an illusion of a man astride a horse. Not just any man, however, but Brandegarth himself, clad as he was today but wearing a golden crown. Athaya hated to admit how masterful the apparition was; each stitch of the ghost’s raiment matched the living Sage’s own and the ruddy stallion swished its tail to chase off flies as insubstantial as the beast itself.
“God made mankind lord over the beasts, did He not?”
Without awaiting her reply, he turned his wrist again; the image shifted and became that of a man and woman. It was the Sage and herself, Athaya realized as the image took shape, though he had done the courtesy of garbing her in a rather low-cut gown of indigo silk rather than the faded brown kirtle she wore today. Athaya was repulsed, however, to see that her insubstantial twin was dutifully kneeling at the Sage’s feet.
“And he made man lord over woman, did He not?”
Athaya looked away indifferently. “Man likes to think so,” she said, her voice laden with sarcasm.
The Sage favored Jaren with a distant smile. “You have married quite a firebrand, sir.” He dispelled the second illusion as well and then created his most masterful yet; a likeness of himself seated on a golden throne, garbed in stately purple robes and surrounded by dozens of—no, Athaya couldn’t possibly call them subjects. They were worshipers, eyes gleaming with rapture at the dazzling sight of their lord.
“And lastly, God made the Lorngeld lord over all, to govern for Him on earth as He does in heaven.”
The Sage studied his creation with unabashed approval, admiring both its craftsmanship as well as its symbolism. Then, after paying silent homage to his majestic reflection, he and his phantom both turned to face Athaya, all four of the sea-green eyes brimming with visions of apocalypse.
“This has gone far beyond you and your paltry crusade, Athaya Trelane,” the living Sage told her. “Your coming was merely the precursor to mine. A new order is being established that will change the course of history. You were the spark to that transformation, Princess of Caithe, but I…” He glanced to his twin, smiling indistinctly as both Sages nodded their respect to one another, and then turned back. “I am the flame.”
Athaya took a step back from that sane yet lunatic gaze. Drianna was right—the sealing spell had altered him markedly. It had not only given him great power, but bestowed on him an even greater opinion of his role and worth. Not two years ago, Rhodri’s ambition had nearly killed herself and Jaren both, as well as being the sole cause of her father’s spiral into madness. Were the Sage to succeed in his own aspirations, he could make that tragedy seem trifling by comparison—a minor footnote in the glittering history of the Lorngeld’s rise to power.
“Believe what you will, your Grace,” Athaya said at last, weaving together the threads of her composure before they could unravel any further, “but I implore you to do so in your own land. Please, leave Caithe to unfold her own future.”
The Sage closed his eyes in quiet exasperation, dismayed that she was so completely blind to the visions he painted so colorfully before her. He banished the illusion with a peevish wave of his hand. “We have had that argument before and I am weary of it. Caithe is my land. And would be still, had not King Faltil driven my ancestors from it. But I have no more time to debate history and theology with you—do that with your Reykan friends. Now is the time for action. To reclaim what was once ours. And I am having such a great deal of success doing that so far,” he pointed out, almost flippantly, “that I see absolutely no reason to stop.”
“There will be nothing left of Caithe for the victor of such a war.”
“If you persist in defying me that may well occur. As I see it, there is only one solution to such an unpleasant outcome. The Lorngeld shall rule Caithe. You can be a part of that, your Highness—your due, as a wizard and a Trelane. Or you can fight me until you are defeated and earn nothing more than a scant reference in a history book as one who tried and failed.”
Athaya scried deep into the Sage’s unyielding eyes. There was no compromise in this man; what had ever possessed her to think she could reason with him? Why had she believed she could turn him from his course? Better to walk to the river and command the waters to reverse their flow, for all the good it would do.
“Come, Athaya,” Jaren whispered in her ear. “We can’t do anything more here.”
Without protest from the Sage, Jaren took her arm and led Athaya toward the garden gate where Couric waited to escort them out of the manor. Jaren stole one backward glance; the Sage had made no move to follow them.
“But be advised, Athaya Trelane,” the Sage added ominously as she and Jaren reached the wrought-iron gate, “the next time we meet, I may not let you go so easily.”
An icy chill snaked down her back and made her shudder. He meant it; Athaya was certain of that.
Couric escorted them back to the gatehouse, murmured a few courtly words of farewell, and sent them on their way. Athaya was surprised at being allowed to walk away from the manor unhindered, but it was only further proof that the Sage did not regard her as a threat—not here, in his stolen domain. Absurd as it was, the snub galled her. Nonetheless, she and Jaren did not stop to rest until they were several miles east of the manor, assured that their easy departure wasn’t instead a carefully crafted trap.
“There are so many of them, Jaren,” she said later, retreating into the generous shade of a willow tree at the side of the road. She sank down in the grass rubbing at her eyes; the day’s stress had given her a vicious headache and each heartbeat pumped a stream of fresh pain throughout her skull. “Ranulf was right. The Sage’s people don’t simply outnumber us; they’re better trained and better organized. My people are scattered all over Caithe, and most of them are novices—the most experienced wizards we have only came into their power a year or so ago. We may have supporters,” she finished sullenly, “but it’s not the same thing as an army.”
Jaren rummaged in his satchel for some cheese with which they could console themselves and divided a small round between them. “Then we’ll have to turn it into an army. Frankly, it looks like the only option we’ve got.”
Athaya chewed thoughtfully on her cheese. She couldn’t believe she was actually considering the idea that had winged its way into her brain and nested there, but the more she pondered it, the more it seemed to be the only viable solution.
Most startling of all, she thought it just might work.
“No. There is one other option left… although I never dreamed I’d have to choose it.”
Jaren eyed her critically. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
Suddenly, Athaya’s headache was all but forgotten amidst her growing excitement. “If you need to fight an enemy and don’t have an army of your own, what do you do?”
“Hire one, I suppose,” Jaren replied dubiously. “But we don’t have the money for—”
“Or what else?” she prodded, eyes glittering.
He paused, gradually beginning to see where she was leading him. “Or… you form an alliance with somebody who’s already got one.”
“Exactly!”
Jaren leaned against the massive willow trunk, dispirited. “Not so fast, Athaya. Osfonin may be willing to shelter runaway Trelanes on occasion, but I don’t think he’ll be so quick to offer Reykan troops. Not even to you. He can’t abide Durek, and—”
“I wasn’t thinking of Osfonin.”
Suddenly bursting with energy, Athaya jumped to her feet and brushed the dusty grass from her skirt. “We’ll need to hire a coach tomorrow,” she said, rapidly counting the number of coins in her purse. Then she looked to the east, eyes blazing with purpose. “Where we’re going next, it will serve us to arrive in style.”
Chapter 8
The coach lurched to the right as it rolled over a dip in the cobbled road that led through the center of Delfarham to the gates of t
he royal palace. After traveling by translocation to the nearby village of Feckham, Athaya and Jaren had walked to the city’s outskirts and hired the coach to carry them into the heart of Caithe’s capital. The driver studied them cynically at first, doubtful that a pair of ragged commoners—probably laborers in the nearby salt mines—would have the coin it took to hire him, and gruffly demanded payment in advance. The silver coins that Athaya folded into his palm had appeased him readily enough, as had her promise to add an extra coin if he got them to the castle by noon. On a fine day such as this, she knew that Durek might well finish his business early and spend the afternoon sailing the bay on his pleasure barge.
Beside her, Jaren tapped his feet on the floorboards in erratic rhythm. He peeked through the window curtains with uneasy regularity, as if afraid they were being followed.
“You’re nervous,” Athaya remarked, feeling far from calm herself.
“I have a right to be,” he murmured, letting the curtains fall back into place. “This is your home, Athaya. You grew up here. I’ve only been to Delfar Castle three times in my life, and on two of those occasions I got myself tossed into the dungeons. Forgive me if I’m a bit skeptical of getting a warm welcome.”
Athaya took his hand and squeezed it; his palm was as moist as hers. “Ah, but back then you weren’t a member of the family.”
Jaren arched a blond eyebrow at her. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”
The coach rolled to a stop a few yards from the portcullis at the castle’s south gate. A few heartbeats later, Athaya heard the approaching crunch of guardsman’s boots on gravel.
“Do you really think this will work?” Jaren whispered.
“It has to,” she replied with a shake of her head, unwilling to consider any other possibility. “Durek may be stubborn and narrow-minded about a lot of things, but he’s not stupid. If he refuses me, then neither one of us has much chance of defeating the Sage.” She regarded Jaren wryly. “And don’t you think it’s a bit late to be asking?”
The Wizard King Page 14