The Wizard King (19 page)

Though impatience made his fingers awkward, Captain Pan was soon able to strip the leather casing from his sword hilt and hold the corbal-studded pommel up to the brilliant midday sun.

Clearly, he expected something to happen. He gulped very hard when it did not. Though her mind was filled with the hum of the crystal’s voice and the denying murmurs of her own, Athaya still managed to smile at him as if indulging the vagaries of an eccentric relative. She touched a finger to the pommel and gently pushed the weapon to one side. “We are in somewhat of a hurry, Captain.”

Blanching, Parr let the sword fall useless at his side. “Not you, too,” he whispered. Athaya detected a rare tremor of fear in his voice as she continued to speak defiance to the corbal’s heart.
I feel nothing from you. You cannot harm me now. I know your secrets and you have no power over me…

The coach shifted as Jaren slid closer to the doorway. He smiled at the captain as if he were one of his dearest friends and not the man who had killed his trusted manservant and very nearly caused his own death as well. “If you’d be so good as to tell his Majesty we’re here?” he said, gracefully cool under Parr’s heated glare.

Even Athaya flashed him a look of surprise, and it took a moment before she realized what he’d done. To avoid letting his enemy know he could not protect himself as Athaya did, Jaren had placed himself under a sealing spell, trusting that she would release him once they had successfully bluffed their way past the danger.

By this time, several other guardsmen and curious servants had gathered around the coach, all keeping a safe distance as they murmured to one another in agitated whispers. Athaya was known to everyone here. In the courtyard beyond the gatehouse, an elderly laundress caught sight of her and promptly dropped her basket of clean bedding in the dust. Even the driver turned to gape at her in dread, suddenly envisioning the unpleasant fate that might befall him simply for daring to bring her here.

“Is his Majesty expecting you?” Parr asked sarcastically, struggling to regain a few shards of his shattered composure.

“I doubt it,” Athaya replied, unable to contain a vagrant smile. “I doubt it very much.” She tapped on the roof of the coach with her knuckles. “Driver, take us across the yard to that set of double doors.”

The guardsmen let the coach proceed through the gate, doubtful that they could stop Athaya from going wherever she cared to whether they permitted it or no, but Captain Parr followed at a close distance, determined not to let the pair of wizards out of his sight.

The driver gave a sigh of profound relief as Athaya and Jaren alighted from the coach, visibly glad to be rid of such notorious passengers. Before the guardsmen could think of a reason to retain him, he snapped the reins and rumbled out of the courtyard, not bothering to claim the extra piece of silver that Athaya had promised him earlier.

“You needn’t escort me to the king if you don’t care to,” Athaya remarked to the captain. “I know my way about.”

“I’ll take you,” he growled back in reply. Behind his mask of scorn, Athaya knew that Captain Parr was frantically trying to figure out what she was up to and what to do about it. “The king is in council right now. Follow me.”

In truth, it was he who followed her, not wishing to turn his back to her for an instant. Athaya kept one eye on the sword in his hand—the corbal was back beneath its leather casing now, so at least she would be able to conjure a shielding spell if he dared to use the blade. Somehow, though, she sensed that the captain was intrigued enough by her presence here not to harm her unless the king gave his permission—something she sincerely hoped he would not do once he heard her out.

The unlikely trio entered the castle proper, skirting the Great Hall on their way to the council chamber. Servants and courtiers alike recognized her, gaping disbelief, but many of Caithe’s nobility stared blankly past her as if she were invisible, not bothering to look beyond her homespun kirtle and peasant cloak.

The antechamber to the council hall was occupied by two guards, both of whom snapped to attention at the sight of their superior, then abandoned the posture just as rapidly when they realized who was with him. Through the double doors behind them, Athaya could hear the strident voices of wrathful men.

Captain Parr stepped past the guards and strode into the hall without knocking. Instantly, Athaya heard her brother’s voice soundly berating him for the interruption. Then came the low murmur of the captain’s voice, and afterward, an eerie spell of silence.

“WHO?”

Athaya grinned in spite of herself, suspecting that Durek’s cry had been heard at the opposite end of the city.

She selected that moment to move into the arched doorway, unhindered by the guardsmen. As she gazed upon the array of goggle-eyed gentlemen seated at the enameled table, each of them transfixed by her presence, it was all she could do not to break into self-indulgent laughter.

Congratulations, Athaya,
she told herself with a touch of pride.
That was without doubt the most dramatic entrance of your life.

“Good morning, Durek,” she said cordially, inclining her head to her brother. “My lords of the council.” Her gaze darkened as it came to rest on the black-robed man standing at the king’s right hand. “Archbishop Lukin.”

Durek rose slowly to his feet, not daring to take his eyes from her, but as he began to step toward her, Lukin rushed to block his way. “Stand back, sire!” he cried dramatically, reaching for a leather pouch at his waist that undoubtedly contained a corbal crystal. “I shall protect you from—”

“Don’t bother,” Captain Parr remarked, his upper lip crimping sourly. “I already tried it. Seems she knows the same trick those Sarian wizards in Eriston do.”

Ignoring the fitful mutterings of the council, Athaya looked past the now-horrified archbishop and focused her attention on Durek as if the two of them were in the room alone. Curiously, now that he was past his initial shock, Durek seemed of all his councillors the least surprised at her appearance. It was as if, like the Sage before him, he had expected her to come eventually, though knowing neither the time nor place.

Durek, however, clearly welcomed the fulfillment of his prophecy far less than had the Sage.

“Your Majesty, may I speak with you in private?” Athaya asked him formally, careful to do nothing to offend. She made no attempt to approach him, aware that her slightest move would be interpreted as a threat. “It’s about the Sage of Sare.”

“I’ve no doubt that it is,” Lukin snarled in response, placing a protective hand on the king’s shoulder. “Don’t listen to her, sire. The Sage is simply another of her many agents. Her appearance here is merely a ruse designed to—”

Durek closed his eyes and sighed irritably. “Jon, be silent.” He flicked the archbishop’s hand from his shoulder as if it were a speck of dirt. “And do move out of my way.”

Lukin’s jaw dropped as if weighted down by lead.

“Archbishop, you will conduct the council in my absence,” Durek instructed him curtly. “I will speak to Athaya in my private audience chamber.”

“Sire, I cannot allow you to—”

Durek wheeled on him in cold fury. “It is not your place to allow
me
anything,” he snapped. Behind him, Athaya’s eyes opened a fraction wider; she rarely heard that amount of venom in her brother’s voice… unless, of course, he happened to be talking to
her.

Durek stalked out of the council hall leaving both archbishop and council speechless in his wake. His footsteps halted abruptly the moment he reached the antechamber and saw that Athaya had not come alone. “What’s
he
doing here?” he demanded, jerking his thumb rudely in Jaren’s direction.

Jaren offered the king a courteous nod—as courteous a one as he could provide to a man who had twice sought his death—and murmured a brief greeting that Durek flatly ignored. The king turned a flustered gaze upon Athaya and began to sputter, more upset by Jaren’s presence than he had been at her own. “Cecile wrote me about your… I can’t believe you—”

“We would have invited you to the wedding,” Athaya cut in, “but frankly, we didn’t think you’d come.”

Durek made a rumbling noise in the back of his throat and marched off in the direction of his audience chamber, brusquely motioning his captain and his unexpected guests to follow.

“You stay here,” he ordered Jaren once they had reached the small waiting room outside the audience chamber. He pointed toward an array of wooden benches on which were perched other petitioners awaiting the king’s pleasure, none of whom seemed overly pleased at sharing their place with a known wizard.

“Captain, I want you to keep an eye on him. But don’t kill him,” Durek added, aware that Parr would do just that if not specifically instructed otherwise. After a moment’s pause, the king clarified his orders even further. “And see to it that no one else does, either.”

The last trace of hope faded from the captain’s eyes.

Just before she left him, Athaya touched Jaren’s arm as if in farewell. “
Aperi potentiam,
” she whispered, releasing his self-imposed sealing spell. She could not trust Captain Parr to obey the king’s command—even the most well-trained hound would strain to resist a juicy mutton joint tossed at his feet despite his master’s order to leave it be—and Jaren might have need of his protective spells.

Athaya followed her brother into the sun-drenched chamber and closed the door firmly behind her. While Durek poured himself a steadying glass of wine, Athaya surveyed the familiar chamber, acutely aware of the volatile history contained within its wainscoted walls. It was in this room that she had endured countless reprimands from her father, in this room that she had inadvertently caused his death, and to this room she had been brought after her last arrest so that Durek could demand that she cease her treasonous crusade.

Her brother looked far less sure of himself today than he had then, perhaps already aware, as she was, of the peril his kingdom faced. Belatedly, he offered her a cup of wine as well. Once she would have hesitated, suspecting him of seeking retribution for what Nicolas had done; now she accepted it graciously.

“I don’t think I have to ask why you’re here,” he said, slouching wearily into a cushioned chair near the window. Odd, but he did not seem to fear her. He was gruff with her, of course, but Athaya sensed that he acted thus mostly out of habit and not out of any existing feelings of resentment. More than anything else, she reflected, he looked resigned. Weary. And maybe a little desperate.

“This has something to do with that Sarian wizard running rampant in my western shires, doesn’t it?” he went on, swirling his wine absently around its pewter cup.

Athaya sat down on an ornately carved walnut bench across from him, setting her shabby skirts to one side. “I went to see him in Nadiera yesterday. I tried to convince him to return to Sare, but he refused. He is quite resolute.”

“Wizards are a stubborn lot.” Durek paused, waiting for a rejoinder that did not come. “The council and I were discussing what to do about him when you made your appearance.” He did not say whether they had come to any conclusions, but judging from the angry voices she had heard coming from the council hall before Parr announced her, she doubted that they had.

“As I told you once before, the Sage is totally convinced that he is destined to rule Caithe. The core of his cult’s belief is that wizards were meant to rule mankind by right of their magic. And as their leader, the Sage is regarded as some sort of messiah.”

“I thought that was your job.”

Again he waited for a rejoinder and again he waited in vain. Athaya had not come to quarrel this time. “Durek, can we try to have a rational conversation just once in our lives?”

Durek sipped at his wine. A begrudging mumble of assent echoed benignly in the bowl of his cup.

“I already know he’s taken over Eriston and Nadiera,” she went on, “but we both know he won’t be satisfied with that for long. Not at the rate he’s gaining support.”

“No.” Durek shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “My men have tried to assassinate him twice, but I imagine you’ve already heard what a dismal failure both ventures were. Eriston was bad enough, but Nadiera! The Sarians crushed my forces before they could get close enough to even
try
using their corbals. And what good was having the damned crystals anyway? His followers—and you, apparently,” Durek added with a troubled frown, “know how to resist them. And that’s the only weapon my men have.”

“It is,” she agreed. “At the moment.”

He rolled his eyes, irritated by her cryptic reply. “So what can you possibly want from me? I haven’t any magic spells to use against him. Or have you simply come to offer terms for my surrender?”

“I’ve come to offer my help. You want the Sage out of Caithe. So do I.” She leaned forward, seizing his gaze with her own. “I’m proposing that we join forces and do it together.”

Durek blinked slowly, like a barn owl. “I can’t possibly be hearing this. You want an
alliance
?”

“If we join forces, then the Sage can no longer exploit a divided kingdom, but will be forced to face a united one. Caithe would no longer be split into three factions, but two—and you and I would have by far the larger one. If we keep fighting amongst ourselves, Durek, it will only advance the Sage’s cause.”

Durek gazed at her intensely, searching for signs of a trick—as she was a wizard, he fully expected her to have a few deceptions tucked away for safekeeping. “What exactly are you proposing?”

“You have an army. The men are organized and they’re well-trained fighters. I have followers, but they’re scattered and in hiding, without any central control. But if we combine the two—if we distribute
my
magicians throughout
your
army—we might just have a chance of defeating the Sage.”

Durek snorted. “My men would never work with wizards.” He gestured indistinctly toward the antechamber. “It’s all Captain Parr can do not to kill that husband of yours where he stands.”

“They’d have no choice about joining forces if you ordered them to. Durek, listen. The Sage already has one of the largest shires in Caithe under his control and he got it with very little effort. He’s recruiting more people every day—people who are angry at what’s been taken from them and want it back. I can’t defeat him if I have to spend most of my time watching my back for the Tribunal, and you can’t win a war against wizards without the kind of help I’m offering.”