Unlike the great lords of Caithe, Athaya’s following in Kaiburn proved cautiously willing to embrace this newfound alliance. Not that the wizards were quick to trust their king—Ranulf had expectorated his skepticism quite clearly when Athaya had made the announcement—but a practical assessment of their plight forced them to realize that they could not defeat the Sage without assistance. And even if Durek rescinded the temporary concessions he had granted, it was generally accepted among the residents of the camp that the Lorngeld of Caithe couldn’t possibly be worse off than they were now.
“As I was saying,” Athaya went on, giving her brother a subtle nod of thanks for his intercession with Tusel, “the Sage has likely heard of our alliance by now and will be making his next move quickly. We’ve already received scattered reports of armed men moving across the shires southeast of Nadiera. We can’t sit around this table any longer and debate the best way to proceed; we have to do something even if it turns out to be wrong.” She jabbed a finger at the gilt-edged map unfurled across the table. “Again, I propose that we concentrate no fewer than seven hundred magicians throughout the central shires to block the Sage’s progress eastward.”
“I don’t want all those spells going off in my shire,” one of the older lords grumbled—one whose lands rested in the lush countryside of central Caithe—then retreated back into silence at Durek’s potent glare of warning.
“Using wizards to defend ourselves will only make things worse,” complained the man to his left. “Country soldiers would just as soon kill our wizards as the Sage’s. They won’t see the difference. Assuming there is one,” he added, barely audible.
“The lords of the land will never stand for any of this,” Lukin declared. He stood apart from the others, keeping near the window to reinforce his profound disapproval of Athaya’s presence among them. Not a drop of sweat shone on his brow, and Athaya speculated that the archbishop was simply too stubborn to perspire and thus admit he was just as human as the rest of them.
“They’ll damn well stand for it if I tell them to,” Durek pointed out sharply. “If they refuse, they are freely declaring themselves enemies of the Crown, and I can revoke their titles and lands in reprisal.”
Athaya noticed a few of Durek’s advisers shifting in their seats, suddenly recalculating the risks involved in resisting their king’s wishes. Earning his anger was one thing; suffering tangible retribution was quite another.
“Many of Caithe’s lords are more willing to help us than you might think,” Athaya pointed out. She addressed the archbishop directly but he refused to look at her, unwilling to acknowledge that she was present, much less that she existed at all. “I spoke with several of them over the past year and most only refused to aid me out of loyalty to Durek—and fear of the Tribunal.” That earned her a quick and venomous glare. “But now that those two obstacles are gone, albeit temporarily,” she added for Durek’s benefit, “they should assist us gladly.”
“And betray their God at the same time,” Lukin muttered. He turned on Durek in a blur of black wool. “I cannot sanction any of this! As spiritual lord of this land, it is my sworn duty to shield your subjects from sorcery.”
“As it is mine to see to their survival.”
“Is that more important than their souls?”
Durek’s gaze frosted over with austerity. “Jon, do not defy me in this—”
“Shall I then defy God? It is His judgment that will be the harsher.” Despairingly, he closed his fist around the silver Saint Adriel’s medal he wore around his neck. “I am glad that our sainted Bishop Adriel is not alive to witness this travesty.”
“Damn it all, Jon—”
Before the quarrel could escalate further, a crimson-clad sentry knocked softly and slipped into the council hall. “Sire? You asked to be informed the moment Prince Nicolas arrived. He and his escort are waiting in the Great Hall.”
“Good,” Durek breathed, grateful for the interruption. “Bring them here at once.” The king rose to his feet. “We’ll continue this later,” he announced, dismissing his council with the timbre of his voice. As the men filed out of the hall—rather eagerly, Athaya noted—Lukin drifted to the king’s side and lingered there like an unpleasant odor.
“Sire, I do not think it wise to have the prince within the walls of this castle.” He flicked his eyes meaningfully toward Athaya. “After what he did—”
“Tried to do, Jon,” Durek replied without looking at him. “And you’ve already made your opinion on the matter more than clear… and with great frequency.”
Lukin’s expression of bitter defeat was not lost on Athaya. She doubted that her brother had ever defied his archbishop as staunchly as he had these past few days, and the suspicion that he was not as influential as he liked to think must be eating at the cleric’s innards like maggots on spoiled meat. Athaya felt Lukin’s acerbic eye upon her as they waited for Prince Nicolas’ arrival, convinced that she was behind the whole of the king’s stubbornness. He never dared to consider that perhaps Durek was simply showing a bit more of Kelwyn’s spirited blood than he had in the past and was gradually growing more comfortable with kingship after a somewhat precarious start.
Jaren and Nicolas entered the room first, closely trailed by the ever-watchful Captain Parr. Jaren’s eyes went right to Athaya, warming with surprise as he surveyed her attire. Having reclaimed her old wardrobe, Athaya had forsaken her tattered peasant’s kirtle for a simple but elegant gown of pale blue silk trimmed with silver thread. The infant alliance with Durek was shaky enough at it was, and she did not want to appear to be baiting his Majesty’s council by dressing in rags when better garments were available to her.
I haven’t seen you look so beautiful in a long time, he sent.
Thank you, Athaya returned, frowning good-naturedly at the backward compliment. I think. She flicked a studious glance at her brother. How is he?
Her query was answered instead by the entrance of Master Hedric. He greeted her only fleetingly, keeping his attention fixed upon the prince to ensure that he remained well under control of his compulsion in Durek’s presence. Waiting in the doorway behind Hedric was the unexpected figure of the earl of Belmarre. Durek gave the earl an ambiguous nod, aware that he should remember him from one court function or another but unable to match a name to the face. As for Hedric, the king glanced to him without a wisp of recognition.
“I am Hedric MacAlliard,” Master Hedric supplied graciously, stepping forward and offering Durek a shallow bow. “High Wizard to King Osfonin of Reyka.”
Durek concealed his surprise well; only a slight twitch of the lip betrayed him. He knew of the title and of the man who held it—this was the wizard who had first told Athaya of her destiny, the wizard who had trained her to her fullest level of magical potential, the wizard whom, were Durek in a more petulant and vengeful mood, he could blame for all that had befallen his kingdom of late. He appraised the old man with regal impunity, studying the wizened eyes, the cut of his robes, and the gnarled cherrywood staff, and finding him a far more benign sight than expected. Archbishop Lukin, standing near Captain Parr in the corner, glared at the old wizard with a unique form of abhorrence normally reserved for the beggars that forever polluted the steps of Saint Adriel’s Cathedral. If he, as prelate of Delfarham, was God’s favored servant, then Master Hedric, the most accomplished of magicians, was surely the Devil’s.
“I am sorry our arrival was delayed,” Hedric said, propping his staff against the council table. “We should have been here days ago, but we had to take a slower pace so as not to upset the prince. Travel seems to worsen his condition. I am the prince’s caretaker, you see,” he explained, trying to banish some of the confusion clouding the king’s face. “With the Sage’s spell still threaded in his thoughts, he needs constant care to avoid lapsing back into madness.”
“Threaded in his… what?”
“I shall explain at your leisure. But now,” he said, prodding Nicolas forward like a child, “
I think his Highness has something he wishes to say to you?”
Nicolas crept forward reluctantly, his head slightly bowed like a pup fearful of being kicked. He glanced first to Durek, then to Athaya, and then frowned deeply. He seemed to remember that his brother and sister disliked one another—though he was not entirely sure why that was so—and sensed that their being in the same room together, much less being on reasonably good terms, was quite extraordinary.
Athaya scrutinized him closely. Signs of his hidden self were there, but they remained nothing but enticing glimpses, peeking out from behind the Sage’s spell like a random thread of sunlight on an overcast afternoon. Thanks to Hedric’s tireless attentions, much of Nicolas’ childlike manner had been successfully subdued, but he was yet a boy dressed up in prince’s clothes, stilted and nervous as a new squire on the first day at his duties, terrified unto death of bungling before his lord.
“Master Hedric told me what I did and I am truly sorry,” he began, eyes averted. The words sounded rehearsed, as Athaya knew they must be, but they also rang sincere. “I will gladly accept any punishment you think I deserve.”
Durek’s face was pinched with bewildered pity as he listened to his brother’s brief speech of submission, perhaps grasping the true scope of Nicolas’ affliction for the first time. Perhaps realizing what atrocities his Sarian enemies were capable of, and that if Nicolas could succumb to them so easily, then so could he.
“I think the spell that binds you is punishment enough,” Durek murmured uneasily. The archbishop made a disapproving grunting noise, but his Majesty chose to ignore it. “And it wasn’t exactly your fault if magic forced you to it. However, while you’re here,” he added more stiffly, as if to make amends for the uncharacteristic show of mercy, “you are to stay confined to your rooms unless I give my express permission. Do you understand?”
Nicolas offered an obedient nod, then waited to hear the remainder of his sentence. Blue eyes gradually widened as he realized that Durek wasn’t going to say anything else. No doubt Master Hedric had prepared him for the worst, warning him that imprisonment could be a likely outcome.
“That’s all of it,” Durek told him, a slight edge of chagrin to his tone. Then, with a resigned sigh, he added, “I know I’ve got every reason to lock you up in a dark room somewhere, but I have every reason to lock Athaya up, too, and… well, as you can see, I’m letting her run roughshod all over my palace.” Durek snorted quietly and looked away, as if to dispel any notion that he had anything whatsoever to do with their newfound alliance and sustain the facade that he was simply an innocent man caught up in events far beyond his meager control
Having dispensed with Nicolas, Durek turned his attention to the earl. “And you, sir? You look familiar to me, but…?”
“The earl of Belmarre, sire,” the gentleman replied with a bow. “It has been many years since I’ve been at court.” The earl framed his next words cautiously. “The prince has been at my estate these last months, in the care of my steward. I hope you will forgive my role in keeping him hidden from you.”
“I have Athaya to thank for that, not you,” Durek replied dryly. He glanced toward the antechamber. “Is your steward with you? He deserves my thanks for his service, unsolicited as it was.”
The earl shifted his weight from one booted foot to the other. “No, sire. His… duties kept him at Belmarre.” A quick glance to Athaya proved that this was only a fraction of the truth. More likely, Adam did not wish to see his king at all, fearful that he would fail to keep a civil tongue in the presence of the man who had signed his son’s death warrant.
“I have come to offer whatever help I can,” the earl went on. “My companions have told me of the Sage of Sare and of the threat he poses to us all. Trust that Belmarre will stand with you against him.”
Durek’s smile was unexpectedly sincere. “I’m glad to hear it. My council is reluctant to believe Athaya’s claim that the lords of Caithe will lend their aid now, when they would not do so before.”
“Doing so before would have been treason,” the earl pointed out. “Now we can serve you both and betray no one.”
Lukin turned his back to them in subdued disgust and glided toward the window like a retreating fog. “And may God help us all.”
Instead of ignoring the archbishop’s invective as the rest of them did, Master Hedric approached the black-clad clergyman, unwilling to let the remark go unchallenged. “You do not wish our assistance? You wish to fight the Sarian wizards alone?”
Lukin whirled on him in a fit of frustrated rage, as maddened by the words as by the very existence of the man who asked them. “I wish that the lot of you would go back to hell where you came from!”
“Jon!” Durek barked, resorting to the same tone he employed when scolding young Mailen for touching something he ought not. “Think what you will, but this man is a guest here—”
“Oh, it’s all right,” Hedric said, lifting a blue-veined hand dismissively. “I’ve run into this sort of thing before.” He turned back to Lukin with a benign half smile and his calm grace made the archbishop look even more vindictive than usual by comparison. “You despise me already,” Hedric observed, “and yet we have never even met.”
“I despise the taint that you carry and the fact that you take so much pride in it.”
Hedric’s half smile vanished. “Hatred is itself a taint, your Excellency. A worse one than simple magic could ever be.” He spread out his hands, palms up. “We are both God’s servants, each in our own way.”
The archbishop’s nostrils flared like a heated stallion’s and his cheeks assumed the striking plum-colored hue that had graced them so often of late. “How dare you imply such a thing! I have nothing at all in common with you!”
Hedric studied him in silence, looking past the priest’s unforgiving eyes and gritted teeth, deep into the well of his soul. “No,” he said at last, his voice carrying the finality of a funeral bell. “I don’t suppose you do.”
The air was electric as Athaya hastily moved to Hedric’s side. “Why don’t I show you to Nicolas’ room?” she suggested, pressing the cherrywood staff back into his hand. She was quite certain that a theological debate between the Archbishop of Delfarham and the High Wizard of Reyka would be most unproductive.
“And I shall have my steward find you suitable quarters as well, sir,” Durek said to the earl, equally desirous of averting a quarrel. “This way.”
They had barely reached the threshold when a uniformed guardsman hastened into the chamber and wiped a ragged salute across his forehead. “Preceptor Mobarec has just arrived at the south gate, your Majesty. He begs immediate audience.”
“Mobarec?” Durek’s brows furrowed worriedly at Archbishop Lukin; the news must be dire indeed to bring the leader of Caithe’s most militant priesthood to his doorstep unannounced. “What brings him here from Kilfarnan?”
The guardsman swallowed audibly. “Sire,” he broke in, his voice wavering slightly, “Kilfarnan is taken.”
* * * *
Preceptor Mobarec, spiritual head of the Order of Saint Adriel, was hunched over a mug of cool ale in the Great Hall, looking far older than his sixty-five years in the wake of his breakneck flight from the western city of Kilfarnan. His once-fine traveling cloak was mud-spattered and frayed, and knotted hands shook wildly, splashing drops of ale on the front of his robe whenever he tried to quench his thirst. Athaya knew little about the man other than he had educated Jon Lukin years before, but that told her as much about Mobarec and his sentiments toward the Lorngeld as she ever cared to know.
With Hedric and Nicolas secure in the prince’s chambers and the earl of Belmarre safely in the care of his Majesty’s steward, Durek, Archbishop Lukin, Athaya, and Jaren gathered around the preceptor to hear his tale. Captain Parr lurked in one corner like a spy, unwilling to let either Athaya or Jaren venture too far from his hawkish gaze. Athaya could not fail to notice how the preceptor avoided looking at her and Jaren as he spoke, as u
ncomfortable with this new alliance as Lukin was, if not as willing to voice his opinion of it. He slid to the farthest edge of the bench, keeping himself as far from the royal family’s most nefarious member as propriety would allow.
“It was as if all the powers of hell had been unleashed upon us,” he declared, eyes glazed with memory. “Fire rained from the sky in great, orange sheets; gaping pits opened in the earth to swallow us up; winged creatures swooped down on us, belching smoke and snapping huge rows of teeth…” Mobarec shook his head in awesome dismay. “These wizards must truly be the Devil’s Children to have command of such things.”
“Most of what you saw was probably illusion,” Athaya said, although she doubted such a fact would ease the preceptor’s mind. “Or more likely, the Sage was using a careful mixture of illusion and reality to keep you constantly guessing if what you were seeing was real or not.”
“It hardly matters now, does it?” Lukin said acidly, barely deigning to look at her. “The city is lost.”
“And our chapterhouse with it,” Mobarec added sadly, expelling a lingering sigh. “There was little anyone could do to fight them. Hundreds of God’s faithful flocked to the cathedral for succor only to be caged like hapless pigeons, forced to join the Sage’s men or die. Those that refused to join were killed… right there in the sight of God Himself! And the invaders were most brutal to the Adrielites—especially those that had served as Justices of the Tribunal. I… cannot even speak of what was done to them.” Mobarec squeezed his eyes closed, choking back a flood of rage and grief. “Had the mayor not surrendered the city, these Sarian wizards surely would have razed it.”
“Don’t you have people there?” Durek asked Athaya, his voice carrying more than a hint of accusation. “Why didn’t they do anything to stop this?”
The Wizard King Page 17