The Wizard King (44 page)

“By right of the gifts God has bestowed upon me, making me most high among His people.”

It was not the liturgy’s traditional response—“by right of blood succession”—but Lukin balked only slightly before lifting the crozier. “Then approach God’s altar,” he intoned, “where you shall be anointed and crowned in accordance with your right.” She wasn’t sure, but Athaya thought she sensed a hint of malice lacing Lukin’s words.

The archbishop opened the ornamental gate leading through the choir, but just before the Sage stepped through the delicate swirls of brass, a rustle of rapidly exchanged whispers moved through the crowd like a gust of wind through a wheatfield. One by one, the witchlights of homage winked out.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to object.”

The Sage whirled around in a blur of white silk to see Durek poised in the center of the aisle at the rear of the nave, with Jaren standing watchfully beside him. Durek was modestly garbed in a tunic and cap of Trelane crimson edged with gold—an intentional choice of colors made even more effective by his understated elegance in the face of the Sage’s opulent display. Durek faced his enemy with cool composure, looking as much a king, Athaya thought, as she had ever seen him.

“Your Majesty!” Lukin exclaimed, as astonished as he would have been if God Himself had deigned to attend the day’s festivities. The crozier slid from his nerveless grip and clattered against the brass gate before striking the floor.

Durek flatly ignored his recalcitrant bishop, outraged that the once-loyal prelate had sold his soul to the Sage by agreeing to preside over this travesty. Instead, he stared unflinchingly into the Sage’s sea-green eyes, as if facing a boar in the wood and daring it to charge. “You bade me come and claim my crown, thinking I would lack the courage to do so. Yet here I am. I am Caithe’s rightful sovereign, Brandegarth of Crewe,” he declared, his voice steady and sure in spite of the dread Athaya knew he felt inside. “You are not, no matter what you may think God has told you.”

Although the sanctuary was uncannily still, Athaya could sense the intense emotions roiling just beneath the surface. Those forced into the Sage’s service were elated at Durek’s bold appearance, while those long of his following shook their heads and mutely ridiculed Durek’s foolishness at walking so blindly to his own death.

The Sage was likewise amused, though Athaya detected a healthy dose of displeasure simmering beneath it. “And how do you propose to stop me?” he asked, in a placating manner that Durek was not meant to overlook.

“You have a custom on Sare called Challenge, do you not?” Durek replied, striding up the aisle in a well-crafted show of confidence. “A contest, I am told, in which it is determined to whom God has granted a larger measure of His grace.”

“That is our law,” the Sage agreed cautiously, wondering where Durek was leading him.

“As I understand it, should some other wizard prove to be your superior, then he proves worthy to succeed you as Sage and, as you apparently believe,” he added, gesturing toward the high altar, “to inherit Caithe’s crown.”

The Sage inclined his head just enough so that a ray of sunlight glinted from one earring. “That is so. But you are no wizard. You have none of His grace at all.” His tone rendered the words mote an insult than a mere observation.

“No. But surely I could name a champion; someone to Challenge you on my behalf.”

The Sage glanced idly over Durek’s shoulder and let out a roar of laughter, deep from the belly. “This?” he said, stabbing a jeweled finger at Jaren. Sneering, the Sage scraped Jaren up and down with his gaze, seeing little reason to waste his time and talent in such a one-sided endeavor. “You make a poor choice of champions, my misguided friend. He is no adept.”

“No,” came the unexpected woman’s voice behind him, “but
I
am.”

The Sage spun around just as Athaya dispersed the cloaking spell that had shielded her approach and shimmered into view directly behind him. His eyes bulged like a hanged man’s, and Athaya did not have to scan the congregation to know that the same expression graced many a Sarian face. From somewhere behind her, Drianna’s squeal of triumph pierced the silence.

Ah, you were wrong that day in the council chamber,
Athaya told herself, vaguely smug.
This was indeed the most dramatic entrance of your life.

“I grew bored on your island and decided to leave,” Athaya said before the Sage could regain use of his tongue. “And how could I bear to miss such a spectacle as this?” She stretched out her arms to encompass the trumpets and roses and riches around her. “It was rude of you not to invite me.”

Although he hid it well, the Sage was livid as well as stunned by her appearance. He knew who had set her free and Athaya could sense his mind rapidly sorting through the many varieties of physical torment at his disposal, trying to select the most agonizing method by which to punish his steward’s heinous betrayal.

“I, Athaya Trelane, wizard by the grace of God,” she began, formally reciting the ritual words as Tullis had instructed her, “do hereby Challenge you for the office of Sage, acting on behalf of my brother.” She paused until the swell of murmurs, both of outrage and delight, quieted around her. “Over a year has passed since your last Challenge; by your own law, you must accept mine.”
Not that you would think of refusing,
she added, the curve of a brow conveying the thought to the Sage.
Your loyal following might suspect you fearful of losing, less certain of your power and thus less worthy to wear the crown you seek so badly.

The Sage glared down at her like an angry god ready to strike her dead. In the face of his regal splendor, and amidst all of those who had donned their most extravagant finery on this day of victory, Athaya looked little better than an upstart peasant. For luck, she had clothed herself in the same forest green kirtle she had worn to her wedding; her hair was simply but neatly bound with a silver clasp. She suspected she made an absurd picture to the congregation, standing defiantly before this jeweled would-be king like an insolent serving girl, challenging him to battle.

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 anything 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.”