The Innocent Mage (65 page)

‘Durm!’ said Borne, startled, and craned his neck. ‘Where did you spring from? I swear you move more and more like a cat every day.’

Standing beside the carriage horses’ heads, Morg smiled. Glossy brown beasts, they were, with perfect paces and gentle eyes. Reaching up a casual hand he stroked the nearest soft nose. ‘Did I hear you aright, Majesty? You’re bound on a picnic?’

‘To Salbert’s Eyrie,’ said Dana. ‘Before the snows come. Will you join us?’

‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure,’ said Morg, fingers sliding up and down the horse’s nose. Perfect, perfect, so wonderfully perfect. ‘Salbert’s Eyrie is an ideal place for a picnic, but alas, I must decline. His Highness and I still have much work to do. Another day, perhaps. But don’t let us detain you any longer on such a superb morning … and do think of us slaving away as you quaff your wine and nibble the dainties you’ve brought in your picnic basket.’ He sighed. ‘Life is so cruel, isn’t it?’

There was laughter as he pulled a mock-sorrowful face. Lifting his other hand, smiling, he ensured he was touching both horses. Power flowed through his fingers. The horses’ liquid brown eyes flared scarlet. He stepped back. ‘Mind your animals, driver,’ he admonished the coachman as the horses snorted and pinned their ears back, heads tossing.

Borne looked from the cripple to the lout and shook his head in sorrow. ‘I can see your minds are quite made up. I confess.I’m disappointed, but not surprised. I warn you, though, next time we really won’t take no for an answer.’

‘As His Majesty commands,’ said Morg, and moved to join the prince at the foot of the Tower steps. ‘Next time.’

‘Drive on then, Matcher,’ said Borne. The coachman picked up his reins and shook his whip and the carriage rolled forward as the horses leaned into their harness.

Morg looked around as Asher came down the rest of the steps. ‘You should go,’ the lout said to the prince in an undertone. ‘When you thought he was dead you’d have given anythin’ to spend just one more day with him. Now here’s a day bein’ handed to you on a silver platter and you’re turnin’ it down. For what? For magici That’s mad. He ain’t goin’ to live forever, Gar. Go.’

Frozen, the cripple stared at the gravel beneath his feet. ‘You’re right,’ he whispered. ‘I’m a fool.’

‘Just remember,’ the lout added, ‘you got that meetin’ with Matt this afternoon, about this season’s two year olds. So don’t go gettin’ carried away with the scenery and whatnot.’

The prince looked up. ‘It’s a picnic, not an expedition. I’ll be back in time, don’t fret. And tell Darran where I’ve gone, will you? He’ll fuss, otherwise.’ He turned and pulled an apologetic face. ‘Sorry, Durm. Studies are cancelled for today.’ Then he sprang after the carriage, shouting. ‘Wait! Wait’.’

As the carriage stopped and the king turned round in his seat, Morg rested speculative eyes on the lout. ‘Well, well, well,’ he murmured. ‘What a meddlesome young man you are.’ And could have killed him with such pleasure …

Defiant, stiff-necked, the lout stared back. ‘It’s only one day. He can put aside his studies for one day. Sir.’

‘As you say,’ he said, smiling thinly. ‘It’s only one day.’

Seated now in the carriage, the cripple leaned out and waved an arm. ‘Durm! Come on!’ he called. ‘There’s no point in you staying behind now!’

‘No,’ Morg agreed under his breath. ‘There’s no point at all.’ He waved an acquiescent hand. ‘I surrender, sir! Your persuasive powers have overcome my better judgement. To Salbert’s Eyrie we go!’

Walking slowly, because above all things Durm was a dignified man, Morg closed the distance between himself and the royal carriage, his mind turning over and over as he rearranged his important plans.

Again.

Soon, very soon, he would have to arrange a special reward for the Olken lout Asher.

The carriage bowled along through the lush open countryside, heading for picturesque Salbert’s Eyrie lookout. As the horses shied, plunging, Borne spoke over his shoulder to the coachman. ‘The team seems fresh today, Matcher!’

‘That they do, Your Majesty,’ Matcher replied, forearms rigid as he grasped the reins. ‘Don’t know what’s got into them and that’s a fact.’

‘Must be all this crisp autumn air,’ Borne said. ‘Mind how you go, won’t you?’

‘Certainly will, Your Majesty.’

Seated opposite him, the queen tipped her face to the sun and sighed. ‘Oh, it feels so good to be outside. Do you know I’ve done nothing but chair committee meetings for nearly a week? I declare I don’t know how those women can be so staid. That Etienne Jarralt —’

‘Ha,’ said her husband. ‘I’ll gladly swap you the lord for the lady.’

Dana sniffed. ‘No, thank you.’

The cripple considered his father. ‘He’s not still complaining, is he?’

‘No more than usual,’ said the king with a dismissive flick of his ringers. ‘It’s all right. Conroyd can’t help himself. He’s exactly as your mother described him: a dog with a bone. Either he’ll bury it and forget where it is, or he’ll chew it to pieces and there’ll be an end to the discussion.’

‘With any luck,’ said the cripple, disdainful, ‘he’ll chew it and choke.’

‘I think,’ his sister said distantly, ‘you should be kinder to him. I don’t care what any of you say, he’s not a bad man.’ She was seated with her back to the coachman, beside her mother, curled up in the corner of the wide touring carriage. Her hair was knotted in loops and braids on the top of her head and she was staring with intense concentration at the countryside flashing by. ‘It’s not his fault his ancestor lost Trevoyle’s Trials and his house never got to breed up kings. He’s a powerful magician. He might have made a very good Weather Worker.’

There was an awkward pause, filled with the pounding of hooves on the roadway and the bouncing creak of the carriage. Morg let his eyelids droop and watched the girl from under his lashes. She was looking very beautiful this morning. A pity the smooth perfection of her forehead was marred by a frown. Tension, arising from resentment of her brother. Foolish child. Life was far too short to waste in petty squabbling. It was a shame she’d never realised it.

As the carriage picked up a little more speed, Borne again spoke up. ‘For the love of Barl, Matcher, must I repeat myself? Slow those damned horses down!’

‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ said Matcher, and once more hauled on the reins.

Morg let his gaze drift over the greenery by the side of the road and smiled. Beside him, the cripple shifted on the red leather seat then leaned forward a little, trying to catch his sister’s attention. ‘I’ve not seen you for days, Fane,’ he said. ‘How do your studies progress?’

She sat there like a maiden carved from ice. ‘Satisfactorily.’

Her brother nodded. Morg could feel the effort in him as he tried to chip away her frozen fac.ade. Fool. Didn’t he know by now he was wasting his time? The girl was just like Barl: a beautiful heartbreaker. ‘That’s good,’ the cripple said, trying to sound encouraging. ‘What incantations are you working on?’

‘My own.’

The queen tried to smile. Took her daughter’s hand in hers and squeezed. ‘Come, darling, you can tell us more than that, can’t you? I’d like to hear what you’ve been doing, too.’

Fane pulled her hand free. T thought we were leaving work behind today.’

‘Don’t be rude, Fane,’ the king said, mildly enough, but with an undercurrent of warning.

The girl’s eyes flashed cold fire. ‘I’m not rude. I just don’t want to talk about it.’ Her gaze flickered to the cripple, then elsewhere. ‘Why don’t you ask Gar what he’s been doing? I’m sure that’s much more exciting.’

The king’s tired face contracted. ‘Stop it. I’ll have no quarrelling, is that clear? This is a family outing, something to be enjoyed, and I won’t have your tiresome jealousy spoiling it.’

The cripple lifted one hand. Placating, as always. Pathetic weakling. ‘Father. Please. She’s a right to be hurt. Angry. Willingly or not, I broke my promise to her and —’

Fane sat up. ‘I don’t want you defending me.’

‘Please,’ said the queen. ‘Please can we just —’

‘EnoughV Borne snapped. ‘How many times must I say it? I won’t tolerate a divided house! I refuse to leave that as my legacy to this kingdom. Not after a lifetime of sacrifice and service. Gar, Fane — one of you will be WeatherWorker after me and the other won’t. If you refuse to accept this then anarchy will again stalk this land. In days long hence, once a new generation’s blood has soaked into the soil, they’ll call it Borne’s Schism. Or Gar’s. Or Fane’s. Is that what you want? Is that how you wish our house to be remembered?’

‘Oh, please, let’s not argue,’ cried the queen. There was a treacherous break in her voice and her eyes were sheened with tears. ‘It’s such a lovely day. Can’t we leave politics behind us for a few hours and enjoy each other’s company? I’m so tired of magic and WeatherWorking and worry! Of late I find myself profoundly sorry that Conroyd Jarralt’s wretched ancestor didn’t win Trevoyle’s bloody Trials! Then he could be the one with the weight of the kingdom on his shoulders and I could look forward to night after night of sleep unriven by nightmares!’

After a short, stricken silence: ‘My love …’ Borne took his wife’s hand and pressed it to his lips. ‘Forgive me. Forgive us all. These past weeks have been hardest on you, I think. You’re so busy being strong for everyone around you … and we’re so used to counting on that strength … it’s selfish and unfair and we should all know better.’ He kissed her hand again. ‘I should know better.’

‘As should I,’ the cripple said quietly. ‘I’m sorry, Mama.’

‘So am I,’ his sister added, thawing slightly.

Dana put her arm around the girl and hugged her, hard. ‘I know, darling. It’s all right. We’ve had a lot on our plates lately. That’s why today is so important. We must smile. Laugh. Model ourselves on ladies best not mentioned and be frivolous!’ She flashed a teasing look at her husband’s Master Magician. ‘Even you, Durm! I am determined that before the day is out I shall see a daisy chain around your neck!’

Morg smiled. T very much doubt it, madam.’

She smiled back, refusing to believe him. Foolish woman. A cautiously companionable silence fell; at length they reached the gated turn-off for the Eyrie. Slowed. Stopped to greet the guards on duty, posted to turn away lesser mortals who might interfere with royalty at play. The horses tossed their heads and fretted, straining in their harness. When the coachman released his hold on their bits they leapt, and the carriage rattled onwards.

‘Look,’ said Fane, pointing. On their left, flashing by as the horses’ long strides ate up the road, a painted sign. Welcome to Salbert’s Eyrie.

‘Nearly there,’ said Dana, and threaded her arm through her daughter’s. ‘Oh, we’re going to have a wonderful day. I can feel it in my bones. How long is it since we picnicked together at the Eyrie? It must be nearly a year!’ Turning a little, she raised her voice. ‘Matcher, Matcher, do slow down\ The countryside is whipping past at such a rate we can scarcely see it, let alone enjoy it!’

‘Yes, Your Majesty, sorry, Your Majesty!’ said Matcher, and leaned back hard against the horses’ iron mouths, grunting with the effort. Morg stared at his straining back, his heaving shoulders. He was wasting his time. The horses’ minds were a ferment of madness now. No power under the sun could stop them, save his.

It was nearly time. Shifting a little in his seat, Morg readied himself. Regretted, briefly, Durm’s fleshy and ponderous body. Still. He had power enough to overcome the minor impediment. He had power enough for anything …

Out of patience entirely, Borne raised his voice. ‘The Eyrie isn’t far from here, Matcher. Stop the carriage and we’ll walk the rest of the way. It’s a view to be savoured, not rushed at. You can take the team back to the stables and return for us this afternoon. Perhaps the extra mileage will cool the heat from their heels.’

‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ said Matcher, and signalled his team to drop out of their spanking trot and back to a suitably sedate walk.

Nothing happened.

‘Matcher!’ Borne said sharply. ‘I said stop here!’

The coachman fetched a desperate glance over his shoulder. ‘I heard you, sire! It’s the horses that ain’t listening!’

And just as though the words were a signal the spanking trot became a lurching canter, and then a pounding gallop.

‘For BarPs sake, Matcher, what are you doing?’ Borne shouted. ‘The Eyrie, man! The Eyrie\ Stop those bloody horses now, before it’s too late!’

‘I’m trying!’ Matcher sobbed. ‘I can’t!’

‘Then turn them off the road! Break all their bloody legs if you have to! Barl’s sweet love, you fool, do you want to kill us all?’

Matcher gasped. ‘I can’t — they’re too strong —’

On a muffled oath, Borne tried to climb up and over the coach railing. Struggled to reach Matcher, to reach the reins, to lend his strength to the coachman’s desperate hauling on the demented horses.

The cripple let out a cry and flung himself to the other side of the carriage to join his father and the coachman. Morg shoved him back into his seat.

‘What are you doing?’ the cripple raged as the king and the coachman wrapped the reins round their forearms and pulled, shouting aloud with the effort. ‘I have to help!’

‘You can’t,’ said Morg. ‘You might hurt yourself.’

Now the king was trying to save them with magic, shouting at the horses at the top of his lungs. Spells of somnolence. Spells of obedience. Even a spell to snap the harness so the carriage could break free. Spell after spell after spell … Morg destroyed each and every one with a thought. The carriage swept around the final bend and Dana, staring along the roadway, screamed. Directly ahead was the famous lookout. Spectacular. Untamed. Between disaster and safety, nothing but a stout wooden railing. The roadway curved to the right, intending to guide visitors to the genteel security of picnic grounds and nodding bluebells, of brilliant sunshine and dappled shade.

The carriage hurtled on.

‘Durm, do something!’ screamed Fane, clutching her mother, all beauty consumed by terror. ‘There must be a spell —’

‘Oh, there is,’ Morg said, smiling, and stood.

With a flourish and a single word he froze them all: Matcher, Borne, Fane, Dana and Gar. With another word and the snap of his fingers he sent Gar flying out of the carriage and onto the grassy side of the road. The prince hit the tussocked turf hard, sliding, to fetch up against the trunk of a spindly tree.