A sleepy-eyed servant stumbled into the solar just then, knocking only as an afterthought. He scowled only slightly less earnestly than did his master, none too happy at being roused from his bed in the dead hours between midnight and dawn. “Pardon, Excellency, but you have a visitor.”
“What? At this hour?”
“He is a member of the King’s Guard. I told him to come back in the morning, but he claims his news is most urgent—”
“Bring him,” Lukin’s curt reply came. Perhaps the king had realized his error and sent a messenger to summon his archbishop back to court. Perhaps, Lukin considered sourly, but not damned likely. Not as long as wizards like Athaya ruled his every thought and deed.
The servant ushered in a tawny-haired young man in crimson livery and, yawning deeply, returned to his bed. Archbishop Lukin didn’t bother to rise to greet his guest, but merely cocked an inquiring brow at him. “And who might you be, disturbing me at such an hour?”
The guardsman’s bow was crisp and respectful. “Hugh Middlebrook, Excellency. I am truly sorry for the intrusion, but I bear the gravest of news.” He paused, curling his gloved hands into fists. “Delfarham has been attacked by the Sage of Sare.”
The news enticed Lukin from his chair quickly enough and he made rapid circular gestures with his hand, silently demanding details.
“When the princess learned of the attack, she and the king immediately returned to the city. Using magic,” Hugh added, shifting uneasily. “Every wizard of any skill has left their hidden camp for Delfarham, hoping to liberate the city. My squadron was to return in their company, but… I could not. I know it was against orders,” he confessed. “I saw them written in the king’s own hand—but the thought of associating with those sorcerers…” He shuddered, as if a rat had just scurried across his boots. “I slipped away as soon as I could. I felt it my duty to tell you of this calamity. Surely you, as God’s most favored servant, can find a way to stop this unholy invasion and free Delfarham from sorcery.”
Shaken by the news, Lukin poured himself a generous glass of strong wine and swallowed half of it in one gulp. He went to the latticed window and stared blindly at the moonlit spires of Kaiburn Cathedral.
“So Princess Athaya makes her move at last, it seems,” he said after a time, aware that Hugh was patiently waiting for his reply. “I have always suspected that this ‘Sage’ is only her hireling, paid to clear her way to the crown…” He turned his gaze northwest and squinted, as if trying to discern the distant turrets of Saint Adriel’s, wondering if they still stood.
“Part of me thinks this is as the king deserves,” he mumbled to himself, “but that does not mean the rest of us should pay the price as well. As prelate of Caithe, it is my holy obligation to save us all from this madness. God would expect no less of me.”
“I will aid you in any way I can,” Hugh offered.
Lukin nodded amenably. “Then stay with me for a few days, Hugh; I may have need of you.”
“Gladly, your Excellency.” Grimly, he added, “There’s nothing to be gained by going back to Delfarham now.”
Lukin called for his servant to show Hugh to a room, ignoring the man’s grumbles at being awakened a second time, then settled back into the shadows of his solar. To his surprise, he was not at all fearful; he had faith that God would guide him to a solution. Perhaps his recent disgrace was only meant to humble him a bit in readiness for his great task.
And humility, he knew, was not something for which the Sage was generally known. Perhaps that, in the end, would be the fatal flaw that led to his undoing.
If it could be property exploited…
“The Devil has his own instruments, just as You do, Lord,” he said. He plucked his prayer book from the table and ran his fingers over the gilded cover. “But we shall prove ourselves the stronger. I swear it.”
* * * *
Athaya’s heart lurched into her throat as the journey came to an abrupt halt; she was rudely deposited upon a rush-covered floor, and promptly tumbled ungracefully to her knees. Unable to stop shaking, she dared not try to stand just yet, fearing for one unpleasant moment that she might lose whatever still remained in her belly. She took deep, bracing swallows of salt-laced air, trying—without much success—to block out the last minute of her life.
The translocation had been terrifying, and not, she suspected, because she was a mere passenger this time. She had never lingered out of the world quite so long; never brushed that close to the churning chaos of the between-place; that close to the gruesome death that awaited those who strayed from the magic path. The Sage was barely in control of the potent spell—that had been the most terrifying thing of all—and Athaya felt as if she had spent the last few moments riding in a carriage with a loose wheel as it careened along a cliffside road, frantically wondering whether she would reach her destination safely or plummet screaming to her death.
Beside her, Brandegarth of Crewe simply got to his feet and dusted himself off as if nothing had occurred. And perhaps to him, she realized, nothing had. That turbulent passage might have been the best he could do—enough raw power to send them hurtling across the world but not enough mastery to make the passage bearable.
“Here, you look in need of this.” Without any sign of dizziness, he strolled to a walnut sideboard and poured her a generous glass of Sarian whiskey. Sare. She should have guessed he would bring her here. “You have made such crossings before; you should not look so shaken.”
Athaya held back a caustic comment on his proficiency as she clambered to her feet. Let him think her spell just as deficient, her translocations just as turbulent. She accepted the glass of amber liquid with trembling hands, desperately in need of something to steady her after such a hellish ride.
“Breathtaking, is it not?” he said to her. His eyes shone, as if he beheld some invisible glory that she was blinded to. “We should be honored that God allows us to use His realm as a bridge to another part of our own.”
Athaya’s glass stopped halfway to her lips. “His what?” she asked, even while the truth of it stirred quietly inside her. It was an obvious connection; why had she not thought of it before? That Master Hedric had entertained such notions she did not doubt; Athaya recalled the studied reverence that had settled over him when, months ago, they had talked of translocation and of the mysterious realm through which it led. The spell, it seemed, was an even rarer and more priceless gift than she had realized.
The Sage took great amusement at her ignorance and laughed robustly. “You truly did not suspect?” He shook his head in mock pity. “And I thought Master Hedric said you were bright.” Chuckling, he sipped at his whiskey, gleaming like molten gold in the dim lamplight of the chamber.
A bedchamber, she realized, and then swiftly shoved the thought aside.
“Tell me, what does that place most remind you of?” The Sage addressed her in the same conciliatory tone of voice her childhood tutors often employed when they know full well she did not know the answers to their queries. “Your source of power, of course; that place within you where magic dwells. Did you never think how much alike they are? They’re linked, Athaya. Divinely so.” He rolled a sip of whiskey around his tongue, then swallowed thoughtfully. “Both are places of sight and sound, confusing to our narrow human senses—places that exist, but yet do not in any earthly sense. Within us—within our source—is all that we are, or were, or will be. That place…”
He looked away dreamily, eyes brimming with wonder. “That place is everything, Athaya. Everyone who has ever lived—or will. Everything that has ever happened—or will. It is the ultimate Source. Heaven, if you will. The whole of Creation; the whole of God’s plan, unfolding in one timeless Instant. If what we bear within us is only the tiniest fraction of that,” he concluded, closing his eyes against the excruciating glory of it, “then can you even begin to imagine what awaits us there?”
Somehow, looking at the rapture on his face, Athaya suspected that if the Sage could tar
ry in that otherworldly between-place instead of whisking through on his way to some other less wondrous destination, then he would pay any price to do so. It would be death to remain there, Athaya knew—though likely the Sage did not. If heavenly realm it was, then it was no place for flesh to venture except in quick passage, like a finger through a candle’s flame.
After his lapse into bliss had passed, the Sage drained the rest of his whiskey in a single gulp, disconcerted by his unintended display of emotion. “But enough of that,” he said curtly. “If I start exchanging theories of divinity with you, Reykan-trained as you are, then we risk prattling all night… or what remains of it.”
Then, as if they had only arrived that instant, he stretched out his arms, encompassing the spacious chamber. Athaya’s eyes had adjusted to the dim light enough to discern her surroundings; the furnishings were all carved of costly Selvallanese mahogany, the tables and mantel adorned with gleaming silver plate, and the draperies, coverlets, and cushions supplied the room with every conceivable shade of blue.
“This was Drianna’s chamber,” he told her. Athaya watched him carefully, but he showed no indication that he knew of his past lover’s presence in Delfarham. “It shall be your home for a short time. But not too long, I promise you. I do not intend the sealing spell to do you the slightest bit of harm. Nor do I intend,” he added more significantly, “to leave it on long enough to enhance that power of yours again.”
She frowned at him skeptically. “You don’t intend to kill me, then? I find that rather hard to believe.”
“Yes, yes… I suppose it’s time I explained everything to you.” He strolled to the fireplace and rested his arm on the mantel, absently toying with a small ivory statue displayed there, carved in the shape of an angel.
“You see, Athaya… since the resolution of the civil wars, Caithe has grown accustomed to being governed by your family. With the perennial exception of the Lorngeld, its people have prospered. For me to simply step in and remake the world anew would cause unnecessary strain. But the transition to a dynasty of Lorngeld can be eased greatly—and very simply—in the same manner by which most political difficulties are healed.” A smile broke across his face, slow and sure. “By marriage.”
Athaya felt all the breath go out of her in a rush, as if a horse had just kicked her in the belly. His knowing gaze left no room for doubt. “You mean me?”
The Sage arched a brow. “I don’t feel inclined to marry either of your brothers.”
He set down the little statue and folded his arms across his chest, serenely confident. “A wizard king requires a wizard queen, Athaya. And despite your prior protestations, I do not think you would find it at all unpleasant being queen.”
His placating tone was infuriating and Athaya focused on her outrage to avoid thinking about the sheer dread of such a dual fate. “Frankly, Brandegarth, if I had wanted to be queen, I could have taken the crown for myself instead of waiting about for you to give it to me.”
The sharp reply only managed to encourage him. “I offer you far more than a crown, Princess. Ah, you know what I mean—do not be coy. Even you must realize what a marriage between us could mean. You know the ways of it when wizards mate together,” he said, dropping his voice to what he intended to be a seductive whisper. “It is not a mere bond of flesh, but a bond of mind and spirit. And we are the most gifted wizards in the world… can you not imagine what the nights would hold for us?”
Athaya found the very idea appalling in the extreme and fought to keep the bile where it belonged. “I hate to intrude upon your fantasy,” she replied coolly, “but in case you’ve forgotten, I’m already married.”
She disliked the way his smile changed, transforming into something more malicious. “Are you?” he challenged. “In Reyka, perhaps. But in Caithe? You have been excommunicated for almost two years, and even were you not, your marriage was performed by a Reykan wizard—not even an ordained priest! It is not binding here. No, as far as the law of Caithe is concerned, you remain quite the eligible young lady.”
The worst thing about his assertion was that it skirted dangerously close to truth, depending on how one chose to interpret the law. Not that it mattered, of course; in her heart, Athaya knew the ritual performed by Overlord Basil was far more solemn and binding than a liturgy conducted by Archbishop Lukin could ever hope to be. “How dare you even think that I—”
“Don’t be difficult about this, Athaya. You seem to forget how easy it would be to simply translate you into widowhood and thus satisfy both Caithan and Reykan law.”
The cruel words slashed through her fury like a blade cutting to the bone. He would do it, too; the contempt in his eyes whenever he looked at Jaren was unmistakable, unable to fathom how Athaya could settle for a man of such mundane skills when there were adepts like himself available for the asking.
“I know your past makes you unsuitable for some,” he went on, “but I care little that you are—how shall I say it?—not unspoiled. I find your willful reputation quite captivating rather than otherwise, and as both of royal blood and magic, you are the only woman in this land worthy of being my consort. Between us, Athaya, we shall found a dynasty of Lorngeld such as the world has never seen.”
Instantly, Athaya detected a flaw in his grandiose plan. “Dynasty? Aren’t you forgetting something?” Indeed, it was one of the first facts Jaren had ever taught her about magic. “Power isn’t hereditary. These children you’re talking about—the ones that will never exist,” she hastily pointed out, “would not necessarily be Lorngeld.”
It seemed he had been waiting for her to make that very point. “Perhaps not,” he said, smiling at her with all the benevolence of a demon. “But we can make them so.”
The words were like ice against her skin. She had heard such mad notions before…
“Over the past few months, I have been perusing the notes left by a Caithan wizard named Rhodri—a gentleman of your acquaintance, I believe,” he added, mocking her with his gaze. “He developed some very interesting theories on the nature of magic and its transference.”
Hot needles of fear prickled beneath Athaya’s skin, tiny points of flame that burned her in a hundred places at once. The books. Nicolas had given him those books… the one part of the Sage’s spell of compulsion that he had obeyed. But she had been so distracted by her brother’s illness that she had paid little attention to what that seemingly trivial act could lead to.
“Theories, nothing more,” she asserted, with a boldness she did not feel. “Rhodri’s experiment was a failure. He was proved wrong by his own death and the death of my father.”
Again, she felt as if she had moved her chesspiece to the very square where Brandegarth wished it to be. “Ah, but what Rhodri did was transfer power after it was fully formed—after a wizard’s paths had matured and the magic flourished within them. What would happen, I wonder, if a wizard’s power was moved—transplanted, if you will—while still in its seedlike state… days, weeks, even years before the mekahn? In infancy!” The rapture that had gripped him earlier now returned to bloom across his face in full measure. “Paths would develop normally, without the need to construct them artificially, as Rhodri was obliged to do with your father. The wizard who gives up his power would lose nothing and the one who assumes it would have no ill effects. The power would run true, as if it had always been there.”
Athaya reached back for a chair and sank dazedly into it. The idea was no less than diabolical, and the simple logic of it—the notion that it just might work—frightened her more than Rhodri’s scheme ever had.
“How can you, who speaks of doing God’s will, dare to interfere with His choices about who is granted the gift and who is not?” Her own voice sounded alien in her ears, so horrified was she by what the Sage was planning.
“He has appointed me His First Servant, Athaya,” the Sage replied, unperturbed by what she, the Circle, or any wizard of Reykan traditions would consider an unconscionable act. “He gave me the
ability to see seeds for a reason—and this is that reason. So that I may establish His kingdom in Caithe, and from there, the world.”
Athaya turned her back on him in disgust. “The ability will fade,” she reminded him. “You will not see the seeds forever—”
He grunted impassively. “So you wish me to believe. But even if it did, I know how to regain it.”
“And when others learn it isn’t God’s grace, but only the ill effects of a sealing spell that gives you such foreknowledge? Would that not spoil the stature of your ‘gift’?”
The Sage shook his head in defiance, fast growing irritated by her ceaseless reproaches. “None could gain what I have. The ordeal would kill them—as it almost did you—their disciplines too weak to save them. See the future for what it is, Athaya!” he urged her. “You cannot turn it aside. We are on the threshold of glory, you and I, and all you need do is step across—”
“It will never work.”
Brandegarth threw back his head and laughed, his merriment echoing up to the vaulted ceiling. “Ah, the eternal cry of those who lack vision!”
“Fine, then,” Athaya snapped, “so you have our futures all plotted out. What about the rest of them? Durek and Nicolas, Cecile and the children? Jaren?”
The Sage shrugged indifferently. “I shall allow them to live if they promise to leave Caithe and never return—assuming, of course, that you do as I ask and become my queen.” He did not overlook her expression of disdain. “You do not believe me?”
“What sort of usurper leaves his enemies alive to raise an army against him later?”
“One quite confident of his ability to hold his crown. And his wife,” he hastened to add, eyes hastily skirting the curves of her body.
Athaya gripped the armrest so tightly that her fingertips tingled with numbness. She had been so sickened by her own reaction to his proposal that the more disastrous implications only now began to reach her. Even the most nebulous rumors of such a marriage could be a death blow to all that she had built with Durek, not to mention the ruin of all her work in Caithe. It would be Lukin’s prophecy come true; in her enemies’ eyes, a crown was the attainment of all her goals, the intended result of all her schemes. Were she to claim that she took it against her will, only to save the lives of others, her protestations would be deemed a farce. And those as prejudiced as Lukin might even go so far as to dismiss her marriage to Jaren as one more part of an elaborate ruse, intricately complex so as to better dupe the people.
The Wizard King Page 28