The Innocent Mage (64 page)

‘Duty …’ The cripple sighed. ‘Yes. In the end it always comes down to duty, doesn’t it?’

Yes indeed. Duty was the magic word. ‘It does, Your Highness. And like your father you have never shirked your duty, no matter what the personal cost.’

The cripple straightened his spine. ‘Then let’s proceed … on one condition.’

He kept the smile pinned to Durm’s lips. ‘Yes?’

‘When it’s over I want to be the one to tell Fane. I want to explain to her that I had no choice. That this doesn’t mean I’m breaking my word. If I explain, I know she’ll understand.’

Morg laughed. Did he truly know his sister so little? ‘Of course, Your Highness. I have no objection. Now. Remove the Orb from its box and hold it lightly in your hands. Clear your mind. Quiet your soul. Look deep into its heart and breathe in … out… in … out …’

The incantation of Transference was a complicated one, with five different levels culminating in a single trigger word. As the cripple prepared himself for the assumption of powers, Morg plucked the words of the Transference from Durm’s memory and rolled them on his tongue like a gourmand tasting truffles. Yes … yes … it was all so ludicrously simple. All he had to do was change this word — and this word — and finally this one — and all would be well.

For him, at least, if for nobody else in this doomed kingdom.

He looked up. The cripple was ready: centred and silent and waiting, oblivious.

With a smile so wide it felt he could engulf the world in a single bite, as tiny Durm screeched and scrabbled impotent in his cage, Morg triggered the spell.

The cripple screamed. Inside the pulsing Weather Orb the magic writhed like a living thing in torment. The Orb began to glow, brighter and brighter until it burned like a multicoloured sun. A shadow touched it: Morg held his breath. Would Barl’s magic detect his handiwork in the cripple’s mind? Would it reject the prince as it had rejected him?

The shadow faded. Disappeared. Morg released the trapped air from Durm’s aching lungs and leaned forward. Watched avidly as the cripple’s fingers convulsed around the Orb, blind staring eyes reflecting gold and green and crimson and purple.

It was working.

The radiant light spread from the Orb and over Gar’s fingers like butter, melting. Flowed into his fingers, his hands, his wrists and through his entire body until he glowed like a lantern made of flesh.

And then the light died, suddenly extinguished. With a moan the cripple collapsed across the table, emptied of incandescence. The Orb rolled from between his lax fingers to rest quiescent against its drab wooden box.

Morg let out a long, shaky breath. Reached for the cripple’s lax wrist and felt for a pulse. It was there: scudding, erratic. His chest rose and fell quickly, shallowly.

He’d survived.

As he waited for the cripple to wake from his stupor he stared longingly at the Orb. More than anything he wanted to destroy it, crush it, spill Barl’s trapped magic to the floor and smear it into nothingness beneath his victorious, contemptuous heel.

But he couldn’t. So he put it back in its box and returned it to the cupboard. Briefly he considered sealing the doors with a killing ward, but discarded the notion. To do so might arouse unwanted curiosity; they were trusting fools, these lost Doranen. The king came here often, and was used to rummaging at will amongst Durm’s things. Going to another cupboard he extracted an empty glass globe and its stand and put them on the table. Then he sat back, gloating, and waited.

At length the cripple stirred. Sat up. ‘Durm.’ He pressed his fists to his temples. ‘You should have warned me it would hurt like that. Fane said it was exhausting, but not that there’d be pain. I thought it would tear me apart … or turn me to ash.’

Morg shrugged. ‘Such warnings are pointless. One man’s pain is another man’s pleasure, after all. Each Transfer is different.’

The cripple shook his head. ‘I feel so strange. Did the Transfer work? For a moment it felt almost as though the Weather Magic wanted to … to reject me. Why would that be?’ He laughed, shakily. ‘Am I still not good enough?’

‘You are perfect,’ Morg said sharply. ‘But to put your mind at rest, let us try a small experiment. Here is an empty vessel. Cast your mind within the void and make it rain.’

‘I’m afraid,’ the cripple whispered.

‘You are a prince of royal House TorvigP thundered Morg. ‘Honour your father and make it rain!’

The cripple reached for the clear globe. Held it before his eyes in silence, gaze unfocused as he searched the new knowledge within. Then he stirred. Stared into the globe’s vacant heart and spoke. The air within it churned. Thickened. Turned white. Grey. Black.

Wept.

‘Look, Durm,’ the cripple breathed. There were tears in his eyes. On his cheeks. There was blood, a tiny trickle, but he didn’t heed it. ‘I made it rain …’

The servants he passed in the corridors on his way to find Fane spoke to him, but he couldn’t hear them. He said something in return, ‘Good morning’ most probably, but he couldn’t hear himself. Could barely see their faces or remember their names.

He’d made it rain.

Blessed Barl preserve him, he’d made it rain, and his life would never be the same again.

He found Fane in the palace solar, eating a solitary breakfast. The hovering servant bobbed a curtsey. He dismissed her and crossed the marble floor towards his sister.

Without looking up from her plate she said coldly, ‘Go away.’

He stopped. Frowned. ‘Fane …’

She reached for her teacup. Sipped. Swallowed. Put it back in its saucer with a faint plink. ‘Did you think I wouldn’t know? Did you think I wouldn’t feel it?’

He went to her and dropped to one knee beside her chair. ‘Fane, I’m sorry. It wasn’t my idea. I didn’t want the weather magic. I begged the king to let my promise stand. But the day we fought there was a scene in Privy Council. It was … awful. Accusations were made. Conroyd Jarralt —’

‘He made you break your word?’ Her face was pale, composed. She spoke calmly, with a vague air of disinterest. As she sliced a hothouse teshoe with her sharp little fruit knife her eyes never left his face. ‘What a bad man.’

‘I argued. I did. I told them I’d made you a promise. But it was all of them against me. Even Father agreed it had to be done. In the end, it came down to what’s best for the kingdom.’

She popped a slice of teshoe into her mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. ‘I’m sure it did.’

He put his hand on her arm. ‘Fane, I wasn’t lying. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t break my promise willingly. I had no choice.’

She reached for a bread roll. The movement broke the contact of his fingers against her sleeve. ‘So you’d abdicate, would you, if it was decided you’d make the better WeatherWorker? You’d refuse the throne for my sake? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Yes!’ he cried. Remembered the rain. Cursed. ‘Perhaps. I don’t know.’ Frustrated, he stood and began to pace around the solar. ‘It might not be as easy as that. This can’t be about what you or I want, Fane. Our personal desires are nothing compared to the welfare of the kingdom. It all comes down to duty. You understand that better than anyone.’

Fane finished tearing the bread roll into tiny pieces, selected one and smeared it with sweet butter. ‘Now I’m confused. It’s a simple question, Gar: would you abdicate, yes or no?’ Still watching him, she ate the bread.

Gar stopped pacing. Returned to her side and again knelt on the chequered tile floor. ‘I … don’t think I could. Not if I were truly chosen. But, Fane, I swear, it won’t come to that. You are the superior magician, I have no doubt of it, you —’

Fane sat back in her chair. Her eyes were very … polite. ‘So when you swore to me the crown was mine, only mine, always mine, what you really meant was, unless you decided you’d rather it was yours?’

Barl save him. ‘No. I meant what I said, Fane. You have to believe that. I spat on it, remember?’

She smiled. ‘I remember.’ Leaning forward, she spat on him. As the hot saliva trickled down his cheek she said, ‘And now we’re even.’

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the spittle. ‘Please, let’s talk about this. I want us to be close, Fane, I want us to be friends, I want —’

‘1 don’t.’ She picked up her sharp little fruit knife and pointed its tip at him. Sunlight flashed upon the blade. It was a small knife, hardly lethal, but somehow it was worse than a hundred balls of flaming glimfire. ‘What I want is for you to go away. Now.’

He stood. Tucked the soiled handkerchief back in his pocket. The knife was still pointing at him. T can’t leave it like this, Fane.’

Her eyes were glittering. With tears, with temper, with implacable hate. ‘I can.’

He reached out his hand to her. ‘Fane … please …’

With a shriek like a falcon swooping for the kill she lunged across the table. The knife caught him. Cut silk and skin. Spilled blood.

He fled the solar, his wounded arm tucked inside his weskit where no-one could see it. The memory of her face chased him all the way back to the Tower.

‘Do you mind?’ said Asher as his inkpot floated gently past his nose for the third time.

Gar grinned, briefly. ‘No.’

‘Well, I do!’ Asher snatched the pot to safety. ‘I got work to finish here. Reports for Pellen Orrick don’t write ‘emselves and —’

‘Would you like them to?’

‘What are you hangin’ around here like a bad smell for anyways? Ain’t you and Durm s’posed to be goin’ on a magical field trip or some such shenanigans?’

‘He’s been delayed. He’ll be along in due course.’

Asher groaned. ‘Then why don’t you wait for ‘im downstairs? No muckin’ about, Gar, I’m bloody drownin’ here.’

Gar looked at the desk crowded with papers and parchment. ‘So I see.’

With a sigh, Asher sat back in his chair. ‘Truth is, I don’t reckon I’ll manage much longer without a proper assistant. And not that bloody Wilier! He’s as much use as tits on a bull.’

Gar’s lips twitched. ‘All right. Find yourself an assistant you can work with, if there is such a creature. Offer them thirty trins a week.’

‘Twenty-five,’ said Asher, scowling. ‘No point givin’ a body ideas above his station, eh?’

That made him laugh: something of a miracle. ‘Fine. I don’t really care. Just deal with it.’

After a considering pause Asher said, ‘So. Is she talkin’ to you yet?’

She. Fane. Gar rubbed the half-healed cut on his forearm and shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Aye, well … give her time,’ said Asher. Trying to sound confident. Failing. ‘She’ll come round.’

‘No, Asher,’ he replied sadly. Remembering her face. The knife. ‘Somehow I don’t think she will.’

Time for a change of subject. ‘“Well,’ said Asher, ‘now you’ve got your floatin’ inkpot trick down a treat, when d’you reckon they’ll let you out in public to impress the locals?’

Gar shrugged, feigning indifference. ‘Soon.’

‘Which means when? Tomorrow? Next week? Next month?’

‘I don’t know exactly. All Durm will say is soon. I think he wants to be certain I’ll not disgrace him.’

‘Bugger what he wants,’ said Asher, snorting. ‘Do you feel ready?’

Gar laughed nervously. ‘Good question. Sometimes I think yes, and other times …’ He shook his head. ‘Durm’s right. I must be ready. I must have complete control of my power. Revealing my transformation prematurely would be disastrous. This isn’t just about me, Asher. You know the political ramifications of this change. For most of my life I’ve been an object of pity. Of scorn. An embarrassing aberration. For most of my life I’ve been more or less invisible, at least to my own race.’

‘You’re forgettin’ Lady Scobey.’

Gar shuddered. ‘If only I could. You know, if there’s a drawback to my miracle it’s knowing she’s going to redouble her efforts to match me with her wretched daughter.’

Grinning, Asher nodded. ‘Never mind. She won’t be the only one. You’ll have your pick of blonde beauties now, I reckon. Lucky bastard.’

‘Yes,’ said Gar, his smile sly. ‘I confess the thought isn’t ntirely unpalatable. But my search for a bride will have to rait, I’m afraid. First I must leap the hurdle of my past and ;ain the confidence and trust of my peers. They know me mly as a magical failure. As a cripple. I’ll have one chance :o show them that’s no longer true. One chance … and if I stumble, I’ll not get a second.’

‘You worried about that?’

Gar hesitated, then flicked his fingers. ‘Of course not. Not really. I just —’

He was interrupted by a sharp knock on the open office door. Wilier. Stiff-necked and stuffy, as usual. ‘Your Highness,’ he said, bowing. ‘Their Majesties are here, and desirous of speaking with you.’

‘Very well,’ said Gar. ‘Show them into the library, then, and —’

‘Forgive me, sir. They’re outside. In a carriage.’

‘Oh. All right. Thank you, Wilier.’ Wilier bowed and retreated, and Gar raised his eyebrows at Asher. ‘Coming?’

‘You don’t listen, do you? All that bloody magic’s bunged up your lugholes worse than earwax. I got work to do.’

Gar clapped him on the shoulder. ‘It’ll still be here five minutes from now. Come on. You need some fresh air. In case you hadn’t noticed you’re getting as persnickety as Darran.’

The royal carriage was halted at the Tower’s front entrance. It wasn’t one of the official carriages, enclosed and groaning beneath the weight of gilt and hand-carved curlicues, but the open touring affair used on the day of Asher’s parade. Sprawled on its crimson leather seats were his father, his mother and Fane, splendid in brocades, leather and wool. His parents were talking, laughing; Fane was silent, her expression as smooth as glass. Gar tried to smile at her as he came down the sandstone steps but she refused to meet his gaze. He felt a small pain between his

‘Are swallowing you alive,’ said Borne. ‘Barl knows we’ve hardly seen hide nor hair of you these past long weeks, Gar. There’s more to life than magic. Family is important too.’

Gar couldn’t help himself. For the third time he looked at Fane. This time she let a spasm of emotion cross her face. His heart sank. ‘Yes, I know that, sir, but —’

‘But pleasure,’ a new voice said urbanely, ‘needs often take a back seat to duty.’