The Wizard King

by Julie Dean Smith

  Behind them, Jaren’s footsteps crackled on dry pinecones, announcing his return to camp. He knew without asking that her spellwork had not been a complete success, but he said nothing, aware that even the most well-chosen words would only make her feel worse. Still, Athaya told him about her witchlight—and Durek’s intervention—as she tossed the last of the twigs into, the fire.

  Bidding her brother a melancholy good-night, Athaya took Jaren’s hand and walked silently to their tent. As he drew back the flap for her to enter, Jaren glanced back at Durek’s hunched silhouette against the campfire.

  “You made peace with him.”

  Athaya nodded slowly. “Shriven on the eve of battle, more or less. But yes,” she said, only belatedly realizing what a rare and remarkable conversation she and her brother had just shared, “I think we healed a lot of old wounds tonight. Most of them, anyway,” she amended, regretting that he had said nothing of Kelwyn. “I only hope it’s part of a new beginning for us and not…” She forced down a swallow; her throat had suddenly gone dry. “Not an epilogue.”

  Her eyes met Jaren’s with a palpable spark like flint on steel, and there, in the privacy of their tent, during the last fragile hours of peace before morning, the unspoken fears that had for days been gathering like stormclouds clashed in the air between them, shattering any vestige of composure either had managed to sustain. The ferocity with which they clung to one another, tumbling down onto the blankets with desperate passion, betrayed what neither dared to say aloud—that were she to lose the Challenge, this night would be their epilogue as well.

  “I’m so afraid,” Athaya said, each word coming out in a sickly, ragged gasp. She didn’t loosen her embrace for even an instant, drinking in the scent of earth and pine and woodsmoke clinging to his skin as if it were the headiest of wines. “I know I’m supposed to be brave, but I’m so terribly, desperately afraid. And worst of all is knowing that the Sage isn’t afraid of anything—except maybe God, and I’m not so sure he fears even Him anymore.” She choked back an angry sob. “How am I supposed to defeat someone like that?”

  “I know,” Jaren murmured, stroking her hair as he whispered kisses into it. “I know how frightened you are. Just remember what Master Hedric always told you; try to have as much faith in yourself as the rest of us have in you. If you can do that, then no one will be able to stop you—not even the Sage.”

  “But what if I lose?” she cried out, yearning to hear his promises that everything would be all right, that her victory was assured even though she knew full well that it was not. “What will happen to you? To all of you?”

  It was a prospect that Jaren clearly did not wish to dwell upon, but he would be foolish to deny the possibility and knew Athaya was entitled to an answer. “We’ll keep trying,” he said after a time, drawing back to gaze deep into her eyes. “We’ll keep fighting for what we believe in, just like you did after Kelwyn and Tyler died. We’ll keep fighting for what’s right so that your sacrifice would always be remembered.”

  A breath of tension went out of her limbs. At least the work would go on; at least someone would raise the fallen banner from the battlefield and deny the Sage full victory.

  Athaya burrowed impossibly close to him, wishing she could hide in the shelter of his arms forever. “Our journal,” she said, barely above a strained whisper. “If something happens to me… take care of it. Finish it. Write the last chapter.”

  There won’t be a last chapter,” he told her, forcing a semblance of certainty into his voice. “There can’t be… not yet. Not for years to come…”

  Then she slid easily beneath him, drowning her fears in a sea of bliss and blinding her senses to everything but the tattered canvas above her, the coarse blanket against her back, and the sweat-soaked heat of Jaren’s body against hers, torturing her with the ecstasy of what she might never have again.

  Chapter 18

  Athaya was haunted by an eerie sense of familiarity as she slipped into Saint Adriel’s Cathedral under the guise of a cloaking spell and waited for the Sage’s coronation to begin. She tucked herself behind the mundane shelter of a tapestry in the chapel of some long-dead king, banishing the cloaking spell to conserve every last drop of power for the contest to come. Unlike the day of Kelwyn’s funeral, however, Athaya passed the tedious hours alone; Jaren remained at Durek’s side to keep him safely out of sight until the prearranged time for his arrival.

  It had been hard to part from them, she thought as she leaned back against the cool stone wall, arms hugging her chest. Harder than she ever expected it to be. Although their mouths offered her comforting assurances of triumph, it was all to easy to read the unspoken anguish behind the joint facade. We haven’t had enough time, Jaren’s gaze told her. I want to have children and grow old with you; I want to watch our children’s children’s eyes go round when we tell them what you did today. And in Durek’s eyes, more of the profound confusion that had graced them so often of late; he studied her as if only just noticing the similarities in her features that linked her, by blood, to him. I’ve trusted you precious little in the past, little sister, but today I must trust my entire future to you… and the futures of us all. He had even kissed her cheek before departing, though the act was quickly done as if he feared someone might catch him at it.

  Now, only minutes before the coronation was scheduled to begin, Durek’s trust—both as brother and as king—weighed heavy upon her shoulders. It was a burden she hoped she could bear; a commission she prayed she could fulfill.

  Had she not known it for Delfarham, Athaya would have guessed herself in a Reykan city when she, Jaren, and Durek passed through the east gate earlier that morning. It was not the crowded streets and mood of boisterous celebration that struck her—though such merriment was rarely seen during the dark days of the Tribunal—but the wildly abundant displays of magic everywhere she turned, like a riot of roses bursting forth in joyous unison after a long and bitter winter. Lively music poured from otherwise-empty jugs placed at each streetcorner, autumn-colored witchlights dispersed every scrap of shade and shadow in the city, and dozens of loyal Sarians clad in their most extravagant attire spaced themselves along the main thoroughfare joining castle to cathedral, together sustaining the illusion that the cobbled streets upon which the Sage would walk were paved with solid gold. This was the Sarians’ prophesied day of triumph, Athaya realized as she passed inconspicuously among the revelers, and they had two centuries’ worth of celebrating to do.

  As if proof that God’s blessings were upon the Sage at his crowning, the day was all an August morning should be. A gentle breeze swept in from the Sea of Wedane to clear off the haze and keep the populace cool, and the sky was crystal blue but for a handful of clouds artfully arranged to provide the Sage the ideal background for the procession to come. From her hiding place in the chapel, Athaya would miss the Sage’s triumphant approach to the cathedral, but she knew it would only sicken her to behold such a spectacle. She could picture it all quite vividly in her mind—the Sage and his closest adherents astride Durek’s finest horses, his Grace clad in costly robes and jewels of state that only her brother had the right to wear, all of them like children playing with their parents’ treasures as if they were but toys, lacking any appreciation for their value or significance.

  Athaya had never witnessed a coronation—she was in exile at the time of Durek’s crowning and was not yet born when her father became king—but knew the general order of the liturgy. After walking down the center aisle, the would-be king was ritually halted at an ornamental gate before the choir screen and asked to prove his claim upon the crown. When the Archbishop of Delfarham accepted the claim and formally declared the candidate to be the true heir—a thing never known not to occur in all of Caithe’s history, despite the inevitable suspense of the moment—the soon-to-be king was escorted through the choir to the high altar; there he would make his solemn vows to both his God and subjects, after which he was anointed and crowned. Peeking out from behi
nd the chapel tapestry, Athaya could glimpse the ancient wooden throne placed in front of the altar to await its new occupant, and on the altar itself, amid the gleaming plates, chalices, and candlesticks set upon a white cloth shot with gold, was a large box draped in crimson silk—the Caithan crown of state.

  Few of the faces in the expectant congregation were familiar to her; with rare exceptions, attendance was restricted to those long of the Sage’s following and the higher-ranking of Caithe’s citizenry who had recently sworn—with varying degrees of zeal, Athaya was sure—their oaths of fealty. Much to her visible displeasure, Drianna sat in a box near the front, neatly pinned between a pair of black-liveried Sarian guardsmen. Athaya did not doubt that the poor girl’s presence was forced upon her by the Sage, if for no other reason than to pointedly remind her that she had joined the wrong side of the Caithan conflict.

  Then, shifting her gaze, Athaya’s heart blazed with rage as she caught sight of Nicolas seated in the same box, likewise well-guarded and looking pitifully lonely and confused. Without Master Hedric’s painstaking care, Nicolas had lapsed back into illness; he fidgeted like an anxious child, absently picking at the pearls embedded in the sleeves of his stiff, formal garments. The Sage exploits his captive well, Athaya thought bitterly; Nicolas’ presence at this ceremony would be construed as condoning his brother’s usurpation, allowing the Sage’s grip on Caithe to tighten ever further. And to those who still believed that Nicolas attempted to murder the king at Athaya’s behest this past winter, his presence here would only set them more firmly in their opinions.

  The piercing flurry of trumpets from the gallery, each gleaming horn draped in silken banners of white and gold, broke Athaya out of her reverie with a start. In dutiful response to the clarion call, the great double doors opened at the west end of the nave, admitting a golden slant of brilliant noon sunlight. The bells that had been joyously chiming since dawn fell silent.

  Athaya wetted her lips. Her hand went to the pouch of corbal crystals at her belt, assuring herself they were still there. It wouldn’t be long now.

  The procession was striking in its simplicity. Instead of being preceded by an endless stream of priests chanting solemn hymns of duty and stewardship, the Sage walked unescorted down the lengthy aisle, the air above him lightly graced by jubilant strains of organ music. Despite the formality of the occasion, scattered applause broke out among the assembly the instant the Sage’s shadow crossed the threshold of the nave; as he passed by them, many among the congregation conjured witchlights in their palms and raised them aloft in glittering tribute.

  “Dameronne’s prophecy is fulfilled!” one woman cried, tossing a rose on the carpet for the Sage to tread upon. “Long live Brandegarth, the wizard king!”

  Athaya hated to admit it, but the Sage of Sare was breathtaking to behold. Every inch of him was clad in snowy white silk, from mantle and tunic to hose and boots. His rich expanse of black hair was expertly combed over his shoulders, and he dazzled the congregation with each step as golden earrings, rings, necklaces, and buckles exchanged the colored reflections of the sun streaming through the stained-glass windows. Not even on his wedding day had Durek looked so splendid—he lacked the Sage’s imposing stature and innate aplomb that turned majesty into divinity. No, not since the day of Kelwyn’s own coronation, the glory of which Athaya had only heard tales about, had Saint Adriel’s been graced with such spectacle.

  The approving noises of the crowd quieted as the Sage reached the ornamental gate where Archbishop Lukin awaited him, quietly aglitter in his most formal ecclesiastical vestments. Lukin seemed unperturbed at his role in the day’s drama, though he scanned the assembly intently from time to time during the processional, as if expecting someone who had not yet arrived. Behind him, just beyond the gate, marble statues of the saints lined the choir screen like a jury, silently assessing the merit of the white-clad aspirant now standing before them.

  Archbishop Lukin lowered his crozier across the aisle, ritually barring the Sage’s path. “Who comes into this hallowed place to claim the crown of Caithe and serve as her rightful king?”

  “I do,” Brandegarth replied, his voice ringing out like a great bronze bell to echo in the vaulted ceiling above them. Again, scattered applause broke the hush. The Sage’s lips curled up in pleasure at this unprompted show of praise.

  “By what right do you claim this title?”

  “By right of the gifts God has bestowed upon me, making me most high among His people.”

  It was not the liturgy’s traditional response—“by right of blood succession”—but Lukin balked only slightly before lifting the crozier. “Then approach God’s altar,” he intoned, “where you shall be anointed and crowned in accordance with your right.” She wasn’t sure, but Athaya thought she sensed a hint of malice lacing Lukin’s words.

  The archbishop opened the ornamental gate leading through the choir, but just before the Sage stepped through the delicate swirls of brass, a rustle of rapidly exchanged whispers moved through the crowd like a gust of wind through a wheatfield. One by one, the witchlights of homage winked out.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to object.”

  The Sage whirled around in a blur of white silk to see Durek poised in the center of the aisle at the rear of the nave, with Jaren standing watchfully beside him. Durek was modestly garbed in a tunic and cap of Trelane crimson edged with gold—an intentional choice of colors made even more effective by his understated elegance in the face of the Sage’s opulent display. Durek faced his enemy with cool composure, looking as much a king, Athaya thought, as she had ever seen him.

  “Your Majesty!” Lukin exclaimed, as astonished as he would have been if God Himself had deigned to attend the day’s festivities. The crozier slid from his nerveless grip and clattered against the brass gate before striking the floor.

  Durek flatly ignored his recalcitrant bishop, outraged that the once-loyal prelate had sold his soul to the Sage by agreeing to preside over this travesty. Instead, he stared unflinchingly into the Sage’s sea-green eyes, as if facing a boar in the wood and daring it to charge. “You bade me come and claim my crown, thinking I would lack the courage to do so. Yet here I am. I am Caithe’s rightful sovereign, Brandegarth of Crewe,” he declared, his voice steady and sure in spite of the dread Athaya knew he felt inside. “You are not, no matter what you may think God has told you.”

  Although the sanctuary was uncannily still, Athaya could sense the intense emotions roiling just beneath the surface. Those forced into the Sage’s service were elated at Durek’s bold appearance, while those long of his following shook their heads and mutely ridiculed Durek’s foolishness at walking so blindly to his own death.

  The Sage was likewise amused, though Athaya detected a healthy dose of displeasure simmering beneath it. “And how do you propose to stop me?” he asked, in a placating manner that Durek was not meant to overlook.

  “You have a custom on Sare called Challenge, do you not?” Durek replied, striding up the aisle in a well-crafted show of confidence. “A contest, I am told, in which it is determined to whom God has granted a larger measure of His grace.”

  “That is our law,” the Sage agreed cautiously, wondering where Durek was leading him.

  “As I understand it, should some other wizard prove to be your superior, then he proves worthy to succeed you as Sage and, as you apparently believe,” he added, gesturing toward the high altar, “to inherit Caithe’s crown.”

  The Sage inclined his head just enough so that a ray of sunlight glinted from one earring. “That is so. But you are no wizard. You have none of His grace at all.” His tone rendered the words mote an insult than a mere observation.

  “No. But surely I could name a champion; someone to Challenge you on my behalf.”

  The Sage glanced idly over Durek’s shoulder and let out a roar of laughter, deep from the belly. “This?” he said, stabbing a jeweled finger at Jaren. Sneering, the Sage scraped Jaren up and down with his gaze, se
eing little reason to waste his time and talent in such a one-sided endeavor. “You make a poor choice of champions, my misguided friend. He is no adept.”

  “No,” came the unexpected woman’s voice behind him, “but I am.”

  The Sage spun around just as Athaya dispersed the cloaking spell that had shielded her approach and shimmered into view directly behind him. His eyes bulged like a hanged man’s, and Athaya did not have to scan the congregation to know that the same expression graced many a Sarian face. From somewhere behind her, Drianna’s squeal of triumph pierced the silence.

  Ah, you were wrong that day in the council chamber, Athaya told herself, vaguely smug. This was indeed the most dramatic entrance of your life.

  “I grew bored on your island and decided to leave,” Athaya said before the Sage could regain use of his tongue. “And how could I bear to miss such a spectacle as this?” She stretched out her arms to encompass the trumpets and roses and riches around her. “It was rude of you not to invite me.”

  Although he hid it well, the Sage was livid as well as stunned by her appearance. He knew who had set her free and Athaya could sense his mind rapidly sorting through the many varieties of physical torment at his disposal, trying to select the most agonizing method by which to punish his steward’s heinous betrayal.

  “I, Athaya Trelane, wizard by the grace of God,” she began, formally reciting the ritual words as Tullis had instructed her, “do hereby Challenge you for the office of Sage, acting on behalf of my brother.” She paused until the swell of murmurs, both of outrage and delight, quieted around her. “Over a year has passed since your last Challenge; by your own law, you must accept mine.” Not that you would think of refusing, she added, the curve of a brow conveying the thought to the Sage. Your loyal following might suspect you fearful of losing, less certain of your power and thus less worthy to wear the crown you seek so badly.

  The Sage glared down at her like an angry god ready to strike her dead. In the face of his regal splendor, and amidst all of those who had donned their most extravagant finery on this day of victory, Athaya looked little better than an upstart peasant. For luck, she had clothed herself in the same forest green kirtle she had worn to her wedding; her hair was simply but neatly bound with a silver clasp. She suspected she made an absurd picture to the congregation, standing defiantly before this jeweled would-be king like an insolent serving girl, challenging him to battle.