The Wizard King

by Julie Dean Smith

  Archbishop Lukin inserted himself between them, wringing his hands and looking as befuddled as Athaya had ever seen him in her life. “Er—Your Grace, what is this? Surely this… this ‘duel’ can wait until after you are crowned!”

  “If you will ask the lady,” the Sage replied, blanketing his wrath under a mask of poise, “she will surely claim it cannot wait. It is my crowning that she seeks to stop.”

  Lukin flashed her a singularly damning glare—worse than most of the glares he customarily shot at her—and Athaya frowned back at him, wondering what possible objection he could have to her interference in this unlawful and unholy coronation.

  Then, shaking off the last vestiges of startled rage, the Sage sidled next to her, whispering to her alone. “I urge you to reconsider, Athaya. There is only one possible outcome of such a contest and we both know it. Truthfully, your Highness,” he added with a leer intended to beguile her, “I would rather marry you than kill you.”

  Athaya’s smile had as much warmth to it as the Sarian highlands in winter. “Truthfully, your Grace, I would rather die.”

  The Sage’s eyes narrowed viciously at her; it was not what he had wished to hear. She was spoiling his day of triumph, but he knew it could be salvaged—if not enhanced—by proving himself superior in battle. “Very well, Athaya Trelane,” he shouted so that all assembled could hear. He flipped back his cloak in a showy gesture of bravery. “I accept your Challenge.”

  As the surge of cheers and protests rose around them, Archbishop Lukin glanced worriedly back toward the gold-shrouded high altar like a host whose dinner guests have suddenly decided to depart, leaving him with a banquet hall of food. “Your Grace, you need not humor her this way,” he said. Athaya would never have guessed the archbishop capable of injecting quite so much obsequiousness into his voice. “You are only moments away from your hour of triumph. Finish the ceremony and deal with the princess afterward.”

  “Silence, Jon!” Durek barked at him, glowering at his archbishop with all the rancor once reserved for his sister. “You have betrayed me as well as Caithe herself by sanctioning this ceremony with your presence. Once this Challenge is done, and Athaya is victorious, I will petition the Curia to strip you of your office, your titles, and your lands. Perhaps I shall give your estates to my sister as a belated wedding gift,” he added, twisting the knife of his fury with every word, “and let her build magic schools on them.”

  The ploy worked to perfection. The archbishop’s cheeks flushed to match his wine-colored chasuble, and he stared at his king stupidly, unable to believe Durek would make such threats even in jest.

  “I hate to interrupt,” the Sage said mildly, turning a dry gaze to Durek, “but before you start making plans for tomorrow, perhaps we should determine whether you or your dear sister will have a tomorrow to plan for. I have accepted Athaya’s Challenge, and thus by proxy, yours. Let us get this done as soon as possible.”

  Durek nodded tersely. “Agreed.”

  Athaya paused only slightly before echoing her brother’s response; now there was truly no way out. “Agreed.”

  “Then let us step out to the square,” the Sage remarked, extending his arm toward the west doors through which he had so recently entered. “We shall require more space for the arena.”

  With his black-liveried guardsmen clearing the way, the Sage led Athaya, Durek, and Jaren to the plaza fronting the cathedral. As the assembly surged toward the doors in their wake, Archbishop Lukin retreated in the opposite direction and vanished into the choir, apparently uninterested in attending the duel. With any luck, Athaya thought, he would hie himself off to some remote corner of the globe and never be heard from again.

  Athaya squinted into the noonday sun as she emerged from the nave and went to stand where the Sage bade her, Durek and Jaren flanking her like bookends. “Once the blood-wards are cast,” the Sage informed her, absently watching his guardsmen demarcate a circular ring roughly twenty yards in diameter, “they will remain in force until only one of the combatants remains alive. The wards will protect the witnesses from harm and keep any external spellwork from disturbing us.”

  Athaya’s eyes skimmed over the hundreds of eager spectators jostling for a place from which to view the contest. “Witnesses… then everyone else will be able to see us?”

  “And hear us as well. But we will be unable to see or hear anything that transpires outside of the arena—rather like gazing into a panel that is closed on the other end. An illusion of privacy to lessen distractions.”

  “And no one can pass in or out?”

  “You and I will become part of the wards themselves; our blood binds our lives inside. However, like traditional wards, the blood-wards cannot physically restrict others from entering or leaving the arena. But crossing the wards would be quite foolish in any case,” he pointed out with a shrug. “Should someone rush in and attempt to aid either one of us, he would very likely be killed in the crossfire before ever reaching our side. Should either of us step outside the boundary, however, the Challenge would be forfeited. A logical consequence, of course,” he added, “as the transgressor would be dead.

  ‘There are no rules inside the wards,” he continued, “as I am sure you have been informed.” His gaze darkened slightly as he reflected on Tullis’ perfidy. “But before we begin, there must be an understanding between us. You fight as your brother’s champion; therefore, if you lose the contest, I may freely claim his life as well as your own. He will surrender to me willingly and submit to whatever fate I choose.”

  “No, this is my—”

  “She agrees,” Durek said, his voice severing her objection like a blade.

  Athaya whirled to face him, but before she could protest such an open-ended concession, Jaren’s voice echoed in her mind, reminding her of unpleasant realities. If anything happens to you, the Sage will kill him anyway. This way, at least he’d be able to salvage some dignity from it. Not that he’ll have to, Jaren was quick to add, since you’re planning to win, right?

  She knew Jaren was right, but sought confirmation in her brother’s eyes nonetheless. She expected to see dread looming there—and perhaps a sting of resentment that he had so little control over his destiny—but to her surprise, she read nothing but stalwart resolve. He had given his life over to her in trust and looked strangely calm at having done so. Calm, she thought… and almost a little proud.

  Durek gave her an imperceptible nod.

  “Agreed,” she said, close to choking on the word.

  “And as for your beloved brother Nicolas,” the Sage added airily, anticipating her next question, “I will see that he is cared for. It will be my memorial to you both, in lieu of having psalters sung.”

  Athaya and Durek glowered at him in wordless concord.

  “Oh, one last thing,” the Sage informed her as he pulled off his earrings and handed them to a waiting guardsman, “you must leave all of your possessions behind. Nothing may be brought into the blood-wards.”

  Athaya sucked in a gasp of dismay; the Challenge was not yet started and already she had been dealt the first blow. “What—”

  “Your jewelry, your purse,” he clarified, even as he began stripping off all but his most basic garments.

  No, not my corbals! she thought frantically. It may well kill me to use them, but if it comes to that, at least I can take you down with me…

  The Sage paused as he lifted off a heavy collar of gold links. “It is the law, Athaya. If you do not wish to Challenge by the law, then I have no obligation to honor your request. If you do not believe me, then take the word of someone you trust.” He muttered something to one of his guardsmen, and Drianna was hastily shoved into the circle.

  “Tell the princess the rules of Challenge, Drianna.”

  The glare she shot at him was poisonous. “He’s telling the truth,” she admitted; the pained look in her eyes betrayed her suspicion of what Athaya’s small purse contained. “The Challenge is invalid if either magician brings a
nything into the wards that can possibly be used as a weapon. Only clothing is permitted. The Challenge is to be a contest of magic alone.”

  Athaya felt her stomach tighten as Drianna extended her hands to take the purse of gems away. She even asked for the simple clasp that bound Athaya’s hair.

  My only real weapon, Athaya thought as Drianna passed the precious pouch to Jaren. My only real hope. Gone. Jaren masked his emotions as best he could—to betray even a trace of despair would only embolden their enemy—but his face was bloodless. He gazed at the purse cupped in his hands as if it were her stilled heart, given to him as undeniable proof of her death.

  Athaya stole a glance at Durek; he sustained an iron facade of courage for the benefit of his subjects, but like Jaren, he knew what the loss of the crystals meant.

  At the Sage’s signal, Sir Couric came forward bearing a pair of slender knives on a black velvet pillow. “Couric will act as my second in the blooding. Since you are your brother’s champion, Princess, then he will act as yours.”

  Without knowing exactly what he was to do, Durek took the blade the Sage’s deputy proffered. The blade trembled in his grasp; it was all he could do not to thrust it deep into the Sage’s heart, consequences be damned.

  The Sage extended his palm to him. “Take care with your cut,” he advised, sensing the tenor of Durek’s thoughts. “Couric will match its depth in your sister’s tender hand.”

  Struggling to keep his anger checked, Durek took the Sage’s wrist and made a shallow slice across the skin of his palm. The Sage cupped his hand so that none of the blood welling within it would be wasted on the ground. He gave a subtle nod to Couric, and Athaya winced only slightly as the man carved a narrow slit into her palm, leaving a thin trail of red liquid in the blade’s wake.

  “Clear the arena.”

  Couric and Durek backed away at the Sage’s command, each clutching a blade stained with the blood of his enemy. Jaren trailed them reluctantly, walking sidelong so as not to lose sight of Athaya for an instant.

  The Sage approached, towering over her. “Now take my hand, Athaya Trelane, and let us bind ourselves within the arena until such time as only one of us remains.”

  He gripped her hand with inhuman strength, but she fought back the urge to cry out. Hot Sarian blood mingled with her own, oozing between her fingers and trickling down the back of her hand.

  “Now repeat the words of the binding: Aut vincere aut mori.” His eyes burned into hers as he spoke; the game was being played in earnest now.

  Athaya’s throat was dry as dust. “Aut vincere aut mori.”

  She felt subtle pressure on her chest as the arena began to take shape. Tendrils of cloud-colored fog flowed from their joined hands, rising like smoke on a windless day. When the column of mist rose to the height of the nave’s rooftop, it slowly arced back to shower down around them like a fountain, with she and the Sage the statues at the source of the water’s flow. Like traditional wards, the blood-wards appeared as a sheer white curtain, barely visible. But then the curtain grew thicker and more opaque, the fluid white membrane shot through with red veins that pulsed in time with their heartbeats. Gradually, like being spun into a spider’s meal, the wards thickened around her; the veil was going down, cutting her off from the world, and Athaya looked back just in time to see the faces of friends and enemies alike fade out of sight as if drifting away on a fog-shrouded lake.

  Jaren. Durek. All of you… by God, let me see you again.

  It was silent now and perfectly still; all sight and sound was absent, as if they had stepped out of the world into a place unaffected by time. It was the antithesis of the between-place of translocation—the divine realm, as she knew it now—all color and noise and vibrancy of life. This was a dead place that only the beating of their hearts sustained.

  “It is just the two of us now,” the Sage murmured, drawing Athaya’s full attention to the matter at hand. They were not truly alone—outside the wards, hundreds of unseen witnesses eagerly awaited the outcome of the contest—but all Athaya could see was the Sage himself and the pulsating red-veined shell that encased their lives; a womb from which she would be born again or a cocoon from which she would never emerge.

  They circled one another slowly, each assessing the other. Athaya tried not to distract herself by the obvious advantage of his physical size. This was a matter of magic alone; such things were irrelevant. Her only weapons were her spells and her only advantage the disciplines and techniques that Jaren and Hedric had painstakingly taught her.

  For all our sakes, she prayed, let them be enough.

  “Nothing is quite so sad as the sight of a lovely woman dead,” the Sage remarked with an artful sigh. “I will regret this Challenge more than the others, I think.”

  He punctuated his words with a graceful arc of copper-colored fire—a spell to test the waters but not to kill. With a whisper, Athaya deftly caught the blaze between her palms and blew it out like a candle.

  She let out the air trapped inside her lungs, unexpectedly relieved. Tension eased from her muscles as she readied herself to strike back. The first shot had been fired.

  The Challenge was under way.

  Chapter 19

  They took each other’s measure for the next quarter hour, each striking tentative blows in an effort to uncover the other’s weaknesses. Once, Athaya found herself instinctively swatting at illusory wasps buzzing before her eyes and the brief distraction was enough to open her to the sting of an invisible lash across her cheek, drawing a delicate trickle of blood.

  “I could be caressing you with kisses instead of with my lash,” he observed. Athaya grimaced; he sounded like an inept bard attempting poetry. With blatant intimacy, the Sage raked his eyes down the length of her body and up again—a tactic doubtless planned to keep her angry and unfocused “Surely you would find that more pleasing?”

  To his acute irritation, the Sage promptly fell victim to his own trick while he awaited her reply, though Athaya conjured honeybees instead of wasps. Now each of them sported a battle wound, a fine trail of salty red liquid dripping from each of their chins.

  She lashed out next with ice: “Glaciem suffunde corpori!” she cried, commanding white blasts of frigid fog to stream from her fingertips like the mist from a vision sphere. In seconds, her opponent was encased in a coffin of frozen water like a beetle set in amber. But the spell gave her only the briefest of respites; a moment later, an orange pinprick of light began to glow just over the Sage’s heart, quickly blossoming over his entire body. The prison of ice melted into a harmless puddle at his feet.

  “Ah, how refreshing!” he remarked, shaking droplets of water from his hair. A shiver rattled his limbs once, but he appeared otherwise unaffected by the ordeal. “Thank you, your Highness. I feel more invigorated than ever.”

  A witchlight sprang to life in his hand with a sharp twist of one wrist. With a whisper, he infused the orb with hellish heat and flung it at her face. She barely called her shielding spell in time, sending the globe ricocheting away in a cloud of blue sparks; it hit the ward boundary with a hiss like hot iron in cold water and shattered into tiny fragments that drifted to the ground like cinders.

  The witchlight could have wounded her badly, but Athaya was encouraged rather than rattled; she recalled something crucial in the act of repelling it. As with his spell of translocation, the Sage’s magics were frighteningly potent, yet lacked the technique that would have rendered them unbeatable. Just as pulling a thread unravels loose-woven cloth, so could she seek out and exploit the frayed edges of his spells to rob them of deadly force.

  He launched another fireball at her, hoping to catch her off guard by using the same trick twice, but this time Athaya spied the flaw in the spell; the loose link in the chain of magics holding it together. The globe broke apart in midair before it reached her, showering down like fireworks. The Sage flinched at the sting of his shattered spell and then glowered darkly at her, irritated that she had countered his magi
c rather than simply deflecting it.

  “You cannot defeat me,” he said, hoping to rob her of any pride in her accomplishment. He circled her with deliberate care, like a cat carefully studying his prey before pouncing on it. “Why do you even try? Do you wish to be a martyr? Yes, I believe you do. I’ve an idea!” he cried with a theatrical snap of his fingers. Green eyes blazed maliciously as he gestured in the general direction of Saint Adriel’s. “This fine cathedral is in urgent need of rechristening; as king, I will not tolerate it to bear the name of the man who concocted the obscenity known as absolution. Shall we rename it Saint Athaya’s after your death?” he asked, taunting her with a smile. “Would it not be a fitting memorial to you? You, who has long yearned to be Caithe’s savior and deliver her people from the ravages of false religion?”

  Athaya knew his words were deliberately chosen to provoke a reaction, but could not keep the fires of rage from burning hotter in her heart.

  “Shall we carve your image alongside the gargoyles over the door,” he pressed on, “or would you prefer to be immortalized in colored glass? A more fragile medium, the latter, yet far more lovely to look upon. And tell me, Princess, what would you like the pilgrims to bring to your numerous shrines? Coins? Charms, perhaps? No,” he added with a nasty little laugh, “I think you’d rather have them bring carefully prepared treatises on the ethics of magic, written in their own crabbed hand. Will you perform miracles for them if they thus solicit you? Yes, of course you will. Blessed Athaya, the patron saint of philosophers!”