The Wizard King

by Julie Dean Smith

  “I haven’t seen you look so handsome in a long time,” she remarked, playfully echoing his backward compliment from the day before.

  Jaren smirked at her. “It belongs to Nicolas. A bit snug in the shoulders,” he added, tugging at one sleeve, “but it’ll do. Hedric let me borrow a few things from the prince’s wardrobe so I wouldn’t look so conspicuous. People around here stare at me enough as it is, as if they expect me to sprout horns in my head the minute they turn away. Here,” he went on, bringing her the tray of bread and berries. Athaya ate a cherry eagerly and Jaren deftly kissed away the sticky red juice that trickled down her chin.

  “And I’ve brought you something else.” Jaren fetched a leather satchel from beneath the bedstand and produced a sheaf of creamy parchment and an inkwell. “For your journal. The one Master Hedric says he’s certain you’ve started by now.”

  Athaya groaned and pulled the counterpane back over her head. “I knew he wasn’t going to forget about that.”

  “Well, you can’t very well leave your fate in the hands of minstrels and storytellers,” Jaren cautioned her. “As a rule, they’re terrible historians. You know how they are—they’ll get the facts wrong, embellish the truth out of existence, and make you sound twice as heroic as you really were.”

  Athaya poked her head out from beneath the quilt like a turtle and offered him a good-natured glare.

  “You don’t even have to pick up a quill, Athaya. Just give me the gist of what you want to say and I’ll do the rest. So,” he said, extracting a quill from the satchel and settling beside her on the bed, “what do you want the people of Caithe to know about you a hundred years from now?”

  Athaya propped herself up against the feather pillows and munched on another cherry, rolling the tiny pit thoughtfully around her tongue as she mused upon the question.

  What do I want them to know?

  Absently, Athaya began to weave her hair into a braid, temporarily at a loss for an answer. How could she ever impart on a few sheets of paper the changes that had come upon both herself and her homeland these past two years? Once, she’d had no other future than to be wife to whatever foreign prince her father chose, and her reluctance to blindly accept that future—though never able to say exactly why—was the scandal of the court for years. But now, in the wake of her mekahn, her entire world had been irrevocably transformed; at times, she felt as if she had drawn her first breath only after her magic had been born, and that everything prior to that was an illusion, a fragment of memory from some other life, or a glimpse into another woman’s mind.

  Two years ago, absolution was the inevitable consequence of power; no one questioned the notion that wizards must sacrifice their mortal lives to save their immortal souls. Kelwyn had been the first monarch in two centuries to gently prod for change, but had not lived to see his desires fulfilled. Today his subjects had a choice over their destiny—a choice his youngest child had fought diligently to provide. Every citizen of Caithe had been touched as a result—forced to rethink their assumptions about magic and its practitioners whether they wanted to or not. Some had been grateful for the upheaval, others had condemned Athaya as the Devil’s agent and deserving of nothing more than a public execution, but it was the rare Caithan indeed who did not have a fairly strong opinion on their princess one way or another.

  Athaya indulged in a smile of wry pride. Better to inspire love or hate, I suppose, than absolutely nothing at all…

  “Maybe that was a rather broad question to start with,” Jaren remarked, when her interval of silence showed no signs of breaking. “How about just starting from the beginning?”

  Athaya placed the cherry pit back on the edge of the tray and took up a chunk of bread. “Well, it all really began with King Faltil, when he exterminated most of the trained Lorngeld in Caithe and left the others to lapse into madness and die. But my part started when my power came. No, even before that… it started with my father, I think.”

  In truth, she had built her crusade upon a foundation laid well before her birth: Kelwyn’s design for the Lorngeld’s future, his assumption of magic at Rhodri’s behest, Rhodri’s obsession with ascending to the Circle. When her own power came, it was yet another link in an existing chain. She had not conceived this grand plan for the Lorngeld; she had only vowed to continue what Kelwyn had already started. But for his vision, she may well have been absolved herself; at the very least, she would have fled to Reyka in self-imposed exile while her homeland remained as it had always been, devoid of magic in all but its most frightening and destructive forms, its native wizards trapped in the vicious cycle of killing those they loved with untrained magic before being put to death themselves.

  Or, she considered, was history inevitably destined to unfold as it had, even unto her father’s demise? Master Hedric—and even Dameronne of Crewe—had foreseen her coming, as well as the great task committed to her hands. Athaya shifted uneasily at the idea of forces far more powerful and unfathomable than her own fallible spells working around and through her, slowly molding the fates of nations.

  She and Jaren worked on the journal for several hours, and in time, Athaya lost her resistance and began to enjoy herself. But while her recollections made her realize how far she’d come since her first spell was cast, she could not shake a powerful sensation that her return to Delfarham signified more than mere symmetry. Her power had almost been stolen from her, her life almost taken as well, friends and lovers had been lost and found, and after all of that, here she was at home again, back where she’d begun, poised at yet another crossroads. But this was nothing so simple as her own decision to take the path of power rather than absolution; now she—and all of Caithe—faced the Sage’s forces with a chance for her lifework’s complete success… or its complete destruction.

  Athaya burrowed deep into the pillows. Jaren’s first question still haunted her. What do I want them to know about me a hundred years from now?

  Absent fingers kneaded the bedsheets. That I wasn’t the scheming harridan some people said I was. That I made mistakes, but was only trying to do what I thought was right.

  Her fingers stopped their motion. That I never meant to hurt Kelwyn.

  Athaya looked toward the window, speaking more to herself—or to posterity—than to Jaren. “I just want them to know that I was never any kind of saint. I’m nothing more or less than they are… or could be. I didn’t have the vision my father did—not at first. He wanted to understand the Lorngeld; by adopting the powers of magic, he hoped to make himself as good a king to them as he yearned to be to rest of his subjects. As for myself… well, unflattering as it sounds, I probably wouldn’t have given the Lorngeld’s plight a second thought if I hadn’t developed the power myself.” In retrospect, it was almost comical how viciously she had raged against her destiny, only to make it the focus of her life and the foundation of her very existence. “Magic matures you that way… or it can, given the chance. Any gift can, I suppose. If you don’t shrink from it or fight it, but accept whatever gift God has given you in all its aspects—the whole length and breadth and depth of it—then that’s when you’ve got real power.”

  Jaren’s quill scratched feverishly for a while and then stopped. He stared at her in hushed respect. “That’s a sentiment worthy of the Book of Sages.”

  “Oh, it’s not as profound as all that,” she replied with a self-conscious shrug. “Just simple logic.”

  Jaren set quill and parchment aside and was massaging the stiffness from his hand when the distant bells of Saint Adriel’s chimed the noon hour. “Hmm, it’s about time I got dressed,” Athaya said. She crossed to her wardrobe and rummaged through the colorful selection of silks; the fabric felt delicious against her skin after countless months in coarse homespun. “I doubt the council would approve of my attending this afternoon’s session in my dressing gown.”

  Jaren laughed lightly. “Considering the scandals that typically surround you, Athaya, they probably wouldn’t notice.”


  Athaya threw a pillow at him, sending up a light spray of feathers from a small hole in one end. Then, before the first sally could develop into a full-fledged battle, Drianna hurried into the chamber and dumped a basket of freshly laundered bedding in one corner. She had begged to come to Delfarham with them, happily resuming the role of lady’s maid that she had abandoned the previous winter. “Someone’s here to see you,” she said, breathless from taking the tower stairs so swiftly. “He’s waiting in the king’s audience chamber—a wizard from Kilfarnan. He says he’s the leader of your school there.”

  Athaya whirled around, her arms full of pale green silk. “Mason?” She threw the gown clumsily over her head, Drianna lending nimble fingers to the laces while Athaya stuffed her hair ungracefully into a jeweled caul.

  She and Jaren arrived in the audience chamber to find Durek alone with Dom Mason DePere, erstwhile instructor of illusion at Wizard’s College in Reyka. Slouched miserably in a chair near the bay window, the dom barely resembled the gentle scholar that Athaya had spoken to but a few weeks before; his once-fine cloak was torn and soiled, his left arm was snugly wrapped in blood-caked linen, and his throat and cheeks were swollen from a too-close brush with flame. His delicately arching eyebrows had been neatly singed off.

  Athaya took a seat on the cushioned bench across from him. “Thank God you’re alive,” she said, reaching out to his uninjured right arm. “When news came about Kilfarnan…” She shook her head, abandoning the dreadful thought. “I tried to contact you yesterday but I got the Sage instead. He led me to believe you’d been captured.”

  “He was just taunting you. He’s rather good at that.” The dom’s gaze turned even more grim. “So you’ve already heard what happened?”

  Athaya nodded. “Preceptor Mobarec arrived only yesterday. Odd as it sounds, he’s as much a refugee here as you are.”

  “Odd bedfellows, indeed,” Mason remarked, arching the naked fold of skin that had once sported a brow. “I managed to avoid getting captured by the Sage’s men, but it wasn’t easy. My magic school was one of their first targets—little surprise in that. But talented as the Sarians are, I’m not half bad at magic myself.” A glimmer of pride flickered in his tired eyes. “All those years of teaching illusion paid off handsomely. I got away by simply casting an image of myself. A simple decoy. It’s not at all difficult,” he added, lapsing briefly into his scholar’s regard for detail, “a drop of essence and a small mirror is all it takes. And a decoy is easier to sustain than an illusion… a good thing if you’re being chased by people who’d like very much to kill you.” Mason managed a rasping chuckle. “Not even a first-year student at Wizard’s College would have fallen for such an old trick, but apparently the Sarians didn’t expect me to try anything so obvious. They took the bait, and I slipped away.”

  He ran tentative fingers over the swollen flesh at the base of his throat. “Of course, they managed to get a few blows in before I came up with the idea. I almost went up like a torch for mistaking a pillar of fire for an illusion. It gave off no heat…” He clicked his tongue in self-reproach. “Careless.”

  The rest of his tale was disturbingly like the one Preceptor Mobarec had told the night before: the tale of a city in panic, attacked by arcane forces it could barely understand, much less repel. “We were taken completely by surprise,” Mason admitted, “and were badly outnumbered. Those of us that escaped the attack on the school tried to fan out across Kilfarnan to defend it, but… oh, Athaya, my wizards are mostly novices and few of them know anything about battle magic. And these Sarians knew exactly what they were doing. They summoned darkness in midday; they terrorized people with illusion; they even cast spells of sickness on their enemies. It’s rather difficult to concentrate on your spells when you’re busy vomiting and trying to control your bowels. My apologies, Princess,” he added, seeing her face wrinkle in revulsion, “but these people fight to win, and they don’t much care about their methods.”

  Durek leaned against his writing desk, shaking his head in desperate confusion. “I just don’t understand why out of the hundreds of wizards you apparently had living in your camp, not one of them saw the Sage’s army coming—especially when you can all use magic to spy on them. It’s damned hard to hide over a thousand men.”

  “Not when they keep cloaked and warded and travel only at night,” Mason informed him. “It’s a common enough tactic in Reyka.” When the king did not argue the point, Mason turned back to Athaya; his head sagged against his chest, as if it took too much effort to hold it up. “At least the Sage wasn’t lying when he said as many wizards as possible would be spared. We may be his enemies, but we share the same gift. Those that refused to join him were not killed outright, but imprisoned in what used to be the Tribunal’s jails. And if the Sage determines that one of us is simply too dangerous to keep alive, then he ensures that the death is an easy and honorable one.”

  “How noble of him,” Jaren murmured.

  Despite his battered exhaustion, Mason rose to face the king. “I am sorry we were not more help, your Majesty. Truly, we did try to save your city. But please… do not fault your subjects for surrendering so quickly. Sheltered from magic as they have been for two centuries, even the simplest spells terrify them—like children frightened of a paper mask. The Sage knew that all too well.”

  Durek grunted noncommittally, but Athaya thought he was secretly appeased by Mason’s words. Had it not been for the efforts of the dom and his following, Kilfarnan would likely have fallen well before it did.

  “I think what you need now is a hot meal and a few days of rest,” Athaya told him. “You can take the empty chamber next to Nicolas. And I’ll have Kale look in on you—we brought him with us from Kaiburn, and he needs someone to watch over besides me and Jaren.”

  Mason shifted his weight uneasily. “I… didn’t come alone, Athaya. I brought a good two dozen wizards with me. They’re waiting outside the castle gates. We weren’t sure we’d all be welcome, so I came to see you alone first.”

  Durek’s jaw dropped open. “Where will they all—”

  “There’s plenty of room in the barracks,” Athaya countered, sensing that it wasn’t the number itself, but the fact that each one was a trained magician. “Twenty or thirty people is a smaller entourage than the earl of Tusel totes with him everywhere he goes. And their presence might prove valuable. Now we have a small battalion of wizards to help defend the castle in case the Sage attacks it.”

  “He wouldn’t dare!” Durek exclaimed, but behind the show of indignation was a palpable surge of dread.

  “After what I have seen, sire,” Mason said softly, meeting the king’s gaze, “know that the Sage would dare anything.”

  Athaya spat out a uniquely vulgar curse learned from Ranulf. “If the council had simply acted on my proposal to station a few hundred wizards in the central shires, we might have been able to call on reinforcements before the entire city fell.”

  “It’s too late to worry about that now,” Jaren replied. “The question now is what do we do next?”

  Durek made a disgruntled grumbling noise in the back of his throat. “Next? We’ve barely had the chance to do anything at all yet. It’s obviously too late to send a force to Kilfarnan or expect much help from your people there. All we can do now is figure out where the Sage is likely to strike next and prepare for it.”

  “For what it’s worth,” Mason offered, “several of my people heard rumors that the Sage’s next target was Kaiburn—and the forest camp, of course,” he added, stealing a disquieted glance at Athaya. “It’s little more than hearsay, but it may be the only lead we’ve got.”

  Durek scraped his fingers over his beard as he mulled the dom’s news. “It makes sense. He’ll probably try to keep your people contained as much as he can. And I think it’s more than hearsay,” he added, turning to Athaya. “You weren’t awake yet when it arrived, but I received a letter from Belmarre’s steward this morning. Adam Gray—” He broke off abruptly, real
izing only at that moment why Athaya had chosen Belmarre as a hiding place for Nicolas. “Graylen,” he finished, swiftly gathering up the scattered scraps of his composure. “He says that several small groups of men have been seen roaming the countryside east of Halsey. He thinks they may be scouting parties.”

  “And Kaiburn is only two days’ journey from Halsey,” Athaya murmured in reply. “They could be planning to circle around and attack from the south.”

  Durek pondered the matter in intense silence for a while, then whirled around with a decisive flip of his cloak. “I shall leave for Kaiburn tomorrow. I will speak to the people and tell them to ready themselves. And I will pledge the bulk of my army to the city’s defense… Anders!” he shouted at the door, the command instantly producing a crimson-clad sentry. “Summon my messengers. Tell them they are to be ready to leave by sundown. And send for the lord chancellor.”

  “Shouldn’t you stay here?” Athaya asked, once the guardsman had hastened away to carry out his duty. “Going to Kaiburn yourself might be dangerous—”

  “No. I must show myself to them… assure them that they have my protection. I also think…” He balked, glancing to Athaya like a child forced to make an apology to his elders. His hands anxiously worked at the folds of his cloak, alternately rumpling the fabric and then smoothing it out again. “I think I should speak to your people as well and persuade them to do their best to defend the city. Perhaps if they are prepared, as those in Kilfarnan were not, we stand a better chance. I doubt they’ll trust me overmuch, but perhaps… if you came with me…?” He let the query trail off into uneasy silence. Durek desperately needed her presence to sway them to obedience, but it galled him to admit it.

  Athaya knew there were other reasons for his discomfort, but was sure he would not speak of them. The last time he addressed the people of Kaiburn, it was to force her into a public recantation and burn Jaren to death as an example of what happens to those who defy the king’s law. She caught him glance uneasily to Jaren, debating whether to ask pardon for his past brutality, but pride won out for the moment and he chose to say nothing.