Pawn Of The Planewalker (Book 5) (4 page)

Reynard spoke in a firm voice.

“The orders aren’t dead, Garrick. You’ve said so yourself. We have to be strong enough to defend ourselves when they decide to finish the job they started. This approach of development by committee that Darien wants to create will kill our progress.”

Garrick sighed.

Reynard wasn’t much older than he was. But where Garrick just wanted to find his own way in his new world, Reynard was full of vision, ready to tackle the entire plane. He pushed ideas before him as if they were cut diamonds, fully expecting Garrick and Darien to be dazzled by their brilliance.

That was the problem with the entirety of the Torean House today. They were comprised of mages who were, by nature, independent and opinionated. They did not follow rules, and they were used to doing as they pleased. That was no surprise, of course. If Toreans dealt well with organization, they would likely already have been in an order to begin with. But unions required rules and restrictions, and when it came to defining these rules, members of the Torean House were like a gang of roosters in a hen house.

“What do you really want?” Garrick finally said.

“I want you to lead the Freeborn.”

“And if I were ever to agree do that, and then
I
did not do as you think necessary, would you not just attempt to dispose of me like you’re trying to dispose of Darien?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?”

“I only want what’s good for the mages.”

“The mages asked Darien to lead them.”

“You should get out among them more often, Garrick.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Reynard paused, and thought better.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was too firm. But Darien has squandered his goodwill. The mages are bickering. They think electing Darien was a mistake.”

Garrick grimaced. “Go away, Reynard,” he said.

“We need to resolve this.”

“There’s nothing to resolve,” Garrick said. “If you want what’s best for the mages, you’ll stop throwing oil on this fire—and when they grumble, you’ll tell them Darien is a good man who means nothing but the best.”

Garrick hefted the bow and reached for another practice bolt. He nocked the arrow against the bow’s taut gut and faced the target, feeling Reynard’s gaze. Sweat rolled into one eye. He blinked it away, but still his vision swam. Swordplay rang out from across the field. A breeze blew a single strand of Garrick’s hair over his cheek. The target stood across the field. The bolt was long, the weapon’s pull strong. He concentrated on the black mark at the target’s center and let fly.

The bolt swept wide.

“As I said,” Reynard muttered. “Your apprentice is a better shot than you’ll ever be.”

He turned then, and walked across the field.

Chapter 6

Garrick was still steaming as he stepped into his chamber—a large suite with a view that overlooked Blue Lake.

Will, who had been facing away from him and bent inquisitively over a table in the middle of the room, whirled as Garrick entered. He held one hand behind his back.

“Garrick, sir?” Will said with guilt crawling over his expression. The boy was dressed in a baggy linen over shirt and breeches that had been dirtied at the knees.

“What are you up to now?” Garrick said, slamming the door with more force than necessary.

“Uh …”

Will’s gaze fell to the floor. His hand came forward, holding a small lab book. The words
Mice and Other Small Rodents
were penned on the cover in dark ink.

Alistair, Garrick’s previous superior, had kept this journal, and many just like it, for years. They were filled with jotted notes and pages of experimental spell work. Darien had retrieved them from the ruins of Alistair’s manor, and presented them to Garrick as a gift after the events at God’s Tower.

“How many times do I have to tell you I’ll begin your training after things settle?”

“I’m sorry,” Will said.

Garrick held his hand out. “Give me the book.”

Will handed it to him.

He ran his fingertips over the worn leather binding. The edges were rough, ragged and torn with use. Thin cracks crept over the cover like a spider web spun by time. He riffled through the pages, noting diagrams and sketches. Was it only last spring that Garrick had been a simple apprentice?

He looked at Will.

“Are the horses exercised?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Groomed and fed?”

Will nodded, his dark eyes widened in a “you can believe me” gaze.

“How about lunch?”

“You didn’t say anything about lunch.”

Garrick laughed. “Your stomach alone should be enough to tell you when to get lunch around.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Not to worry. I expect Daventry will still have something in the kitchen. Turkey, probably. Get some for both of us—with bread.”

“Yes, sir.”

Will slipped past him, and the door shut gently.

A quiet settled around him.

Outside his window, tall ships lay in Dorfort’s port, and men unloaded crates of goods from distant places like Whitestone and Farvane. He put the book back on the table and cast his glance around the chamber. It was larger than any dwelling he had ever occupied before. A padded velour couch ran along the far wall. A desk filled one corner. A connecting room held the library of Alistair’s journals. His bed chamber connected from the other side, linens freshly made and scented with spices from lands to the east.

Such luxury made him uncomfortable.

A knock came to his door.

It would be Will, of course, coming back to double-check his order. The boy could never keep anything right. “Turkey!” he yelled as he whirled. “With bread.”

The door swung inward.

Darien stuck his head through the opening.

“I’ve been called worse, I suppose,” he said with a grin. “But I tend to think of myself as grain–fed steak from Horval.”

Garrick chuckled despite himself.

“I thought you were someone else.”

“I saw the boy slinking out of here. Looked like a whipped pup.”

Garrick sat on a chair and twisted his lips into a smirk. “I snapped at him.”

Darien shut the door and took a seat at the edge of the couch. He wore a cape lined with gold thread, a freshly cleaned tunic, and a wide belt polished to a black shine. His boots were spotless. His dark beard had come in fully throughout the months of summer.

“He’s a lot like you were, isn’t he?” he said.

“Yes,” Garrick replied. “He is.” He leaned against the windowsill. “How is your father doing?”

“No change. Your cure has kept him alive, but he is still weak.”

“He’s a strong man, Darien. But my healing can only go so far. I don’t think I can make anyone immortal.”

“I know,” Darien said, though his eyes displayed a combination of hurt and confusion that let Garrick know Darien could not possibly understand. “We will see what happens.”

“I’m sorry to have left him that way,” Garrick said. “It was all I know to do.”

“He was happy to see you, you know?”

Garrick didn’t completely agree on that point, but he nodded rather than argue. “To what do I owe this visit?” he said.

Darien paused.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he said. “Calling you scatter-brained was out of line.”

“So, you’ve reconsidered your position on experimentation, and are now all for it?”

“No. But I apologize for losing my temper. I was tired, and it was late.”

“You need to trust me on this one Darien.”

“I do. I trust you.”

“No, you don’t. You’re not listening. I came here at your request. I gave your father his cure—”

“Just because you saved my father’s life does not mean I will cave to your wishes when it comes to the people of Dorfort.”

Garrick’s face flared with heat, and his head throbbed.

“Don’t twist my words, Darien. We’ve been together too long for that. I didn’t cure your father as a bargaining chip.”

Darien nodded. “I’m sorry for my insinuation.”

The two sat in silence for a moment.

“The mages need to test their work, Darien.”

“And they can.”

“But they won’t do it under your plan. You can’t expect to approve every step they take.”

“That is nonsensical.”

Garrick felt discomfort rise within him. “Nonsensical” had become Darien’s favorite word, and he said it with that lilt to his voice, that tiny edge that said it wasn’t really the idea that was nonsensical, but the person instead.

“The city is on edge, Garrick. Surely you see that? Despite all of your efforts to save lives, it is fact that we lost good people at God’s Tower. And our citizens want to see something come of it. They were sympathetic to the Torean cause because the Freeborn were the downtrodden, and because the Lectodinians and Koradictines were clearly a threat. But everything is different, now.”

“Not everything,” Garrick said. “We both know the orders are still dangerous. The citizens of this city may have taken a dislike to the Freeborn, and they may be leery of my rumored powers—” he held up a hand to cut off Darien’s arguments “—I hear them, Darien. Don’t pretend you don’t. I know what people think of me. Children shrink away as I walk down the streets, and I hear stories of how I tore souls straight from living bodies—all of them true, I might add. I hear them question if I am a mage or a demon, and to be truthful I can’t blame them because I ask myself the same questions when I gaze into the mirror.”

He paused.

“None of this, however, matters to the Koradictines or the Lectodinians, who will return, and none of it matters to the Torean mage who wants to experiment.”

“If the Torean House doesn’t put controls in place, the people will see to it that it does matter.”

Garrick groaned as his hunger pressed against its bounds again.

“I’m sure you didn’t come up here to cover the same arguments over again,” he said. “What do you want?”

“I need the council to be able to approve all experimental practices, Garrick. Without this, the people of Dorfort will not accept the Freeborn. And if the people of Dorfort don’t accept them, then no one else will, either.”

“You don’t understand mages, Darien. They don’t care if people accept them or not.”

“Then maybe it’s a good thing I don’t understand mages, because it’s obvious that mages don’t understand the average citizen of Dorfort.”

Garrick turned to gaze idly out the window, his hunger was still rising, his head swirling, and his vision blurring. He stood and planted his hands on the sill, staring over the city. His fingers gripped the wood of the sill. Its coarse grain had been sanded and oiled over to protect it from rain and sun. The stone below it was hard and cold, but the wood was different, pliable in ways the stone wasn’t. His fingers seemed to sink into the wood, his flesh molding to become one with it.

Blackness rose inside him.

Words echoed in his hearing—Braxidane’s voice, twisted and distorted by distance.

The wood had been alive once. It had grown on a hillside with thousands of other trees, elm and oak and white birch that rose like living spikes into the sky.

“Are you all right?” Darien’s voice broke in.

The image shattered.

Garrick pulled his hands from the sill. Yes. They were still his hands. The sill was still the sill. A shudder crossed his back.

“I said, are you all right?”

Darien was standing beside him with concern on his face.

“Yes,” Garrick said, embarrassment coming over him. “I’m fine. I just need to rest.”

“How long has it been?”

“I only slept a few hours last night.”

“No. I meant how long have you been keeping yourself bottled? How long since you last fed?”

Garrick glanced warily at Darien, knowing exactly what his friend was asking.

“Are you worried I’ll release wrath on the people?”

Darien’s crestfallen face told him how wrong he had been.

“Don’t pretend with me, either, Garrick. I know your powers as well as any man alive, and I think your inner essence clouds our entire discussion. You think a mage can’t be expected to control his need to experiment, because you can’t control yourself. You’re like a wolf. You pace and pace to walk off energy. You stay up at night, maybe howling at the moon for all I know. And as a result you think all other mages will balk at the controls I propose. But they’re different, Garrick. I hold them to a different standard because they can decide what to work on and when to work on it.

Garrick leaned back against the wall, and felt the brick hard against his spine. He rolled his head around his neck, trying to release tension.

“Darien, you are my friend, but your understanding of how Torean mages think is atrocious. Any Freeborn who was inclined to accept what you’re proposing would already be a Lectodinian or Koradictine.”

“You are a Torean, yet you accepted Alistair’s direction.”

“For the last time, Darien. There is an ocean of difference between a mentor and a legislator.”

“Well,” Darien said. “Either way, I think your magic is tearing you up right now.”

“I can live with it,” he said.

“You can’t just not deal with it, Garrick. I’ve seen what happens when it's been too long.”