“You are the king!” Brandegarth taunted, smiling down at Durek’s pain even as he deftly turned aside Jaren’s efforts to relieve it. “Command me to stop—beg me!—and perhaps, just perhaps, I shall obey you.”
Just as Durek struggled to voice a scathing refusal, another blast ruptured the air, this one from behind them. In an explosion of wind and blinding light, the guardsmen at the door fell back, blown aside as easily as stalks of wheat in a storm, moaning in anguish as they clutched their heads against sudden pain. The Sage spit out an angry curse of surprise as Master Hedric stepped into the chamber. Far more than a frail old man in a simple green robe, Hedric was electric with power, calling forth every ounce of adept power at his command.
“I cannot allow you to do this,” he said calmly, his benign tone in glaring discord with the massive and deadly magic he wielded. He eased himself between the Sage and his captives. “No wizard shall use his power for domination. Such is the law of the Circle.”
One gesture to Durek, and the spell of sickness was dissolved. The king struggled to his feet, woozy and pale, but otherwise cured of his affliction.
“Your Circle holds no sway here,” the Sage said. All traces of his mocking ways were gone; remaining was the wrathful god. “And even if it did, old man, I would not obey it. You threaten me with no more than the strictures of shortsighted philosophers who have no concept of what our power is for, denying themselves its full extent like priests who swear to celibacy to uphold some misguided sense of propriety.”
“You have ruined my wards,” Hedric observed mildly, refusing to be baited as his eyes drifted past the Sage to the open window where once-fine wards now hung in tatters. Then, without speaking, he sent a different message to Jaren. I knew you were in danger when the wards went down. The Sage may be powerful, but his technique leaves much to be desired; his spells are atrociously loud.
“And you have tightened your bindings upon the prince,” he continued to the Sage, “undoing all of my careful work…” The word is spreading through the castle to evacuate, but I fear it is already too late for most.
Did you find Athaya? Jaren sent back.
Hedric paused. No, Jaren. If she is here, then she is well warded.
“Nicolas only lives because his sister wishes it,” the Sage said darkly. “He is of no other use to me.” Brandegarth lifted his hands to cast another spell, but Master Hedric quickly countered with another potent blast of light, scattershot with silver and stars.
Take the king and go, Hedric sent. I shall see to Prince Nicolas. You cannot take him with you and hope to escape.
Jaren heard the growing exhaustion in his Master’s voice and grew fearful; Hedric was not a young man and the Sage was at the peak of his power. Hedric needed a weapon that the Sage did not have; something he would never expect…
The crystals! Jaren sent urgently, subtly touching a finger to the leather purse at his belt. Master Hedric, I have them! If Athaya can do it, maybe you—
No, came the firm reply. Even if I knew how to use them, I would not do so. We cannot betray what might be Athaya’s only hope of defeating the Sage; if he knows such a thing can be done, he may well find a way to do it. He’s powerful now, Jaren. Not tightly controlled, but with enough raw force to make up the difference…
“The sealing spell has damaged you,” Hedric remarked to the Sage, betraying nothing of his other, private dialogue. “Your spells are potent, but not so refined as ought to be the case with an adept.”
Master Hedric, what will you—
I have other means, he replied obscurely. Jaren could hear the vitality ebbing from his voice; whatever Hedric was planning, it would take all the strength that remained to him. Now go, and take the king to safety.
The Sage raised his arms aloft as if to invoke God’s blessing upon the contest to come. “Then we shall see who among us is the finer wizard. I have won many Challenges over the years against those who fancied themselves my betters.” He narrowed his eyes and stepped back, readying a killing blow. “I am a greater wizard than any clucking hen of your Circle. God has granted me gifts that have never before graced this world!”
I can’t just leave you—
Jaren, don’t argue with me. I haven’t the time for it and neither do you. Now go! Get as far away from this room as you can!
Hedric’s placid face betrayed none of the frightful urgency of his words. “Despise us if you will,” he said to the Sage, one blue-veined hand sliding inside of his robe, “but we of the Circle do know one or two useful tricks.”
He extracted a small charm; a charm that Jaren recognized at once, though he had not seen it since the early days of his service to Hedric. It looked like nothing more than a peasant woman’s poppet—a harmless scrap of cloth tied with twine—but Jaren’s eyes widened with horror as he realized what Master Hedric intended. Empowered by all seven wizards of the Circle, the charm was meant to be used only in the direst of need. Like the brutal, psychic jolt that Rhodri had once dealt him, its deafening screams echoing within the corridors of his paths, Hedric’s charm was charged by the Circle to do the same, but on a killing scale. An extremely potent weapon, but one that discouraged careless use by killing any wizard in the immediate vicinity when it was discharged…
His paralyzing shock was broken by the touch of Durek’s hand on his shoulder. “Don’t you see? Hedric is buying time for us. You can’t help now. Neither of us can. Please, Jaren,” Durek added, as humble as Jaren had ever heard him. “I need your help to escape.”
It was, Jaren realized, the first time that Athaya’s brother had ever called him by name.
And Durek was right; if they did not leave now, Hedric’s sacrifice would be in vain, and he would be dead as well. And Nicolas would be safe in the end; the charm was only deadly to wizards and Nicolas had no paths to damage. And with the Sage dead, his wizard’s army would have no Sage to follow, no king to crown, and thus no more reason to continue their assault on Caithe.
A promising outcome… as long as the charm worked.
With one last look at Master Hedric, committing his face forever to memory, Jaren grabbed Durek’s arm and fled. The Sage’s shielding spell, intended to block their escape, was shattered like fine crystal by the force of Hedric’s counterspell—the last spell he would ever cast before whispering the keywords, hurling the Circle charm to the ground, and destroying both he and his enemy in one brilliant psychic explosion of pain.
The last thing Jaren heard as he bounded down the corridor at Durek’s side was the Sage’s angry voice, echoing like thunder as he rained down curses upon Master Hedric’s head. “Now, old man, you’ve made me angry. Do you really think it will take me long to find them again? You’ve given yourself up for nothing. Now you shall see what the true chosen one of God can do…”
As he and Durek hurtled down the spiral stair leading to the castle’s lower level, Jaren heard the deafening roar of a thousand oceans churning in his head; the very stones seemed to shake beneath his feet, as if a god-child had picked up the fortress and shook it like a toy. Shock waves from the explosion rippled through him, battering his paths and sending him crashing to his knees with a strangled gasp before Durek hauled him up and urged him on. He clutched Durek’s arm and ran blindly, sick with grief and pain, wondering what had become of Athaya, praying that Hedric’s charm was potent enough to kill the Sage, and torn with anguish that if it was, then he would never see his mentor again.
* * * *
Athaya unconsciously obeyed the whispers in her mind that bade her wake only to find herself in the same dungeon cell where she had been confined the night Rhodri had come to steal her power. The wall beside the pallet was scarred with the scratches she had made to mark the time of her confinement… and, she noted with a shudder, spattered with dark stains never fully scrubbed away—the last earthly traces of Rhodri’s shattered body, unable to contain the stolen power that it bore. But as Athaya massaged the sleep from her eyes, bringing into focus the man
looming over her pallet, she dearly wished that it was only Rhodri come to torment her again. She possessed the power to challenge him now; she could not say the same for the Sage.
The farther she emerged from her cocoon of magic-induced sleep, the more aware she became of the sensation inside her head. Her skull felt solidly stuffed with wool—a feeling that was dishearteningly familiar. This time, the wool was packed more tightly, proof that the spell was cast by a more powerful wizard than the last one who had bound her so.
Damn. She should have expected as much. The Sage had taken advantage of her weakened state and confined her power with a sealing spell while she slept. Now she was unable to use any spell at all, much less channel one through a corbal. If I had one, she added sullenly, realizing that the pouch of gemstones was with Jaren. Wherever he was.
The Sage bent over her and nodded curtly, satisfied that she had roused at his command. “Come with me,” he said, though his voice wavered curiously, without its usual arrogant vigor. “Someone wishes to see you.”
Athaya sat up, still drowsy, but it did not take long to realize that something had happened to her captor since they had last met. The Sage was badly shaken; his powerful hands trembled like an old woman’s and the normally haughty eyes were shrouded and disoriented, as if he had been rudely jolted from an achingly beautiful dream to attend his own execution.
He did not speak at all as he led her to Nicolas’ rooms. The room was not guarded, but Athaya did not fail to notice two blanket-shrouded bodies lying in the corridor; a scrap of black cloth laced with silver peeked out from one of the shrouds. Her stomach twisted into a tight knot as the Sage pushed open the familiar set of doors, suddenly terrified that she would enter the room only to see a priest muttering prayers over her brother’s body, consigning him to heaven and bidding him fair journey.
The sitting chamber was deserted, but bore telltale signs of magic. An ugly black scar marred the center of the carpet, the air carried the acrid stench of scorched wool, and bits of cloth and twine were scattered across the floor as if a child’s puppet had been rent apart. Something else lingered in the room as well, though it was far less definable; vibrations of a sort, just now fading away.
“What happened here?” She bent down to touch a scrap of cloth and the vibrations intensified slightly.
“What happened, Princess,” the Sage replied with a respectful tone that she had rarely heard him employ, “was that I very nearly introduced myself to God before I was ready, thanks to your mentor. That should make you proud. But God gave me the power to prevail,” he added, lest she draw too much satisfaction from his tale. “He protects His servants well.”
He escorted her to the inner chamber. Nicolas was nowhere to be found; instead, Master Hedric lay across the quilts, dangerously close to death.
“Oh God, no…”
The change in him was a brutal shock; for the first time, he truly looked old. Thinning locks of white hair hung limply around a sallow face and once-bright eyes were glassy and distant, already set upon their journey home. Only by looking very closely could she detect the shallow rise and fall of his chest to know that he lived at all.
In an unexpected gesture of respect, the Sage retreated to the sitting chamber, allowing them to speak in private.
Athaya crept to the bedside, each step an effort, as if her shoes were weighted with lead. She pulled up a stool and clasped his hand, running her fingers lovingly over the labyrinth of veins that bulged beneath paper-thin skin. Once, these hands had cast spells she could only dream of; now, they were white and bloodless and cold.
“Master Hedric, can you hear me?”
With only those scattered senses not imprisoned by the seal, she brushed against his mind, recoiling in horror at the widespread destruction there. His paths were all but gone, the once-majestic caverns reduced to crumbling bits of rubble from which his magic trickled steadily, hemorrhaging, unable to be stopped.
“God, what has he done to you?”
Hedric’s eyes fluttered open. When he spoke, every word was a labor. “He did nothing, Athaya. This was my own doing. Although, I did not expect either of us to survive it. His experience in repelling the corbals must have given him enough strength to turn aside my charm. Sadly, I had no such strength remaining.”
Athaya squeezed his hand, as if to give some of her own life-force over to him. “Charm? What charm?”
Hedric’s eyes closed again; keeping them open was too taxing. “Ask Jaren later. He took the king to safety. Do not fear for them.”
Athaya bowed her head in a quick prayer of thanks.
“The Sage has sealed my power,” she whispered. “If you can release me, I can take us both to safety.”
Alas, I cannot, he sent, no longer able to rouse the strength to speak aloud. My power is dead. As will I be… very soon.
Athaya strengthened her grip. “Don’t talk like that. Why, you’ll begin to sound as dismal as I do and Jaren always chides me for it.”
Hedric managed a crooked smile. I have lived long, my dear. I bear the Lord no grudge for taking me home. I only wish that I could have been with you on your day of victory, rather than having to watch it in Kelwyn’s company. And Tyler’s, too. They are watching even now, Athaya. Be certain of it.
A cold shiver snaked down Athaya’s back. Somehow, although it unsettled her to think on it, she knew it, too.
Do not grieve for me, he sent, though his voice was becoming as faint as the errant vibrations in the air around them. I can think of nothing more honorable than to die so that other wizards after me may live. But … do ask the Sage if he would let me rest in Reyka. It is my home.
Athaya bit her lip hard; she would not cry—not yet. “I will ask… I will demand it.”
You will defeat him, Athaya. Dameronne did not foresee everything… I know that now. He struggled for another breath and Athaya felt a trickle of strength flow through his grasp. The Sage calls himself God’s greatest servant, he told her, but at this time in history, Athaya, that honor is yours, in part, perhaps, because you would never dare to claim it for yourself
Athaya took little pleasure in the accolade; how could she, when the man responsible for setting her on that path was dying? “Master Hedric, please don’t leave me—”
But he was already drifting away and she did not think he heard her anymore.
Finish your journal, he admonished her by way of benediction. He opened his eyes, taking in one last glimpse of his beloved protégé, and then, with a contented smile, sank deep into her pillows. Vision swimming in tears, Athaya bent down and kissed his cheek; the flesh dry as parchment against her lips. Just as she drew back, he gasped once, eyes wide with awesome wonder, and then his breath was expelled for the last time and his eyes closed upon the world, even as they opened to another.
The Sage was at her side shortly thereafter. His hands had stopped trembling and a sense of normality was returning to his demeanor. He gripped a glass of wine in one hand, however, and Athaya suspected that it was not his first.
“He wishes to rest in Reyka,” she said, too paralyzed with grief to cry just yet.
The Sage nodded, and for once his benevolence was not tainted with insufferable superiority. “He was an honorable foe. I shall grant his request.”
Athaya rose to her feet, surprised that she had strength enough to stand. “Where… where is Nicolas?” she asked, hoping to distract herself from the sorrow pressing down upon her by busying her mind with other problems.
“Elsewhere in this castle,” he told her evasively, “but alive and under my protection. And I shall keep him so, as long as you do not trouble me. Now come.” He set the empty glass aside and extended a hand to her. “We must go.”
“If I’m to be your prisoner, I’d rather be held in my own rooms. The dungeon is cold and damp.”
The Sage shook his head imperceptibly. “You will not be staying in Delfarham. Or in Caithe, for that matter. Holding you here would be risky; there would be a cha
nce, however slight, that one of your allies might find a way to free you. They have shown themselves thus resourceful in the past. Now come.”
This time it was not a request, and with Nicolas’ life balanced on her response, Athaya knew she had to obey.
She turned to look upon Master Hedric one last time, so peaceful now, all his earthly cares concluded. He had set her to the task of restoring magic to the Lorngeld of Caithe, and now all of her work lay in tatters. As the Sage led her off to some unknown prison, Athaya could not help but think how twisted all of her dreams had become. For the first time in two centuries, wizardry had indeed returned to Caithe, but not at all in the guise that she had intended or foreseen.
Chapter 14
That same night, far from the fires and bloodshed in Delfarham, Archbishop Lukin sat awake in the darkened solar of his Kaiburn townhouse brooding over his reduced fortunes. News of his disgrace had spread like a pestilence, and not even his successor Eldrid, Bishop of Kaiburn, had sent a note to welcome him back to his former see or offer him an honorary place at his supper table. Lukin drummed his nails on the armrest of his chair, glowering passionately. God’s breath, had the whole world been set upon its ear? How was it possible that Princess Athaya and her ilk continued to gain ascendancy in the land, while he—prelate of Caithe, no less!—found himself shunted out of court like a troublesome peasant. What was next? If the Devil’s Children could gain the king’s ear and bend him to their will, then there was no telling what sorts of havoc would reign in Caithe. Would serfs begin to tell their lords which crops to sow and where? Would laymen bless their priests?
“Your Majesty,” Lukin murmured, his voice little more than a dry scraping sound in the darkened chamber, “you grow as big a fool as was your father on matters of magic.”
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