The Innocent Mage Read online

  He said, very carefully, ‘You’ve never asked me that before.’

  His father nodded. ‘I’m asking you now. Do you wish you were my heir?’

  Gar stared at the tablecloth. Did he wish it? Did he envy Fane the birthright that should have been his? Covet the power that danced at her fingertips and lit her eyes like lanterns? Did he want to one day be the kingdom’s WeatherWorker, even though he knew better than almost anyone breathing what that meant? The sacrifices and the savagery?

  Oh yes. A thousand times yes. He wanted it so badly the desire ate his belly like an acid, churned in him and welled unbidden from his eyes in the hollow privacy of the night.

  He looked up and smiled at his father, seeing in the tired face a maelstrom of dread and hope. He shook his head. ‘No, sir, I don’t. I’m content with the life Barl has seen fit to give me.’

  And because he’d had a lifetime of practice in concealment, or because the need to believe was so desperate, or both, his father believed him.

  Fractionally, Borne’s whitened knuckles eased their grip on the back of the chair, and some of the strain eased. ‘I’m glad,’ he said, and sat down again. A small sigh escaped his pale lips. ‘And not because I fear the king you would have made, Gar. In truth, I think you’d be a king without peer, for reasons having nothing to do with magic. Reasons that Fane must learn if she’s to be the queen this realm deserves and requires.’

  Another thing that had never before been said. It was long moments before Gar could trust his voice again. ‘Thank you, sir. I value your opinion above all others.’

  ‘You must help her see,’ his father said. ‘Durm can teach her everything there is to know about magic and the uses of power. Your mother can advise her on protocol and the womanly arts. I can explain from sunup to sundown the intricacies and hidden traps of government … but only you can help her see the richest crop in all our kingdom. The Olken, Lur’s original children. You possess in abundance the one thing Fane lacks. The common touch. The Olken love you.’

  ‘And you!’ Gar said swiftly.

  Borne smiled and shook his head. ‘After a fashion, perhaps. Though I think it’s more reverence than love. The functions I perform on their behalf, rather than myself. But you? You they hold in genuine and heartfelt affection and I thank Barl for it. I wish Fane were held in half as much respect.’

  ‘Give her time,’ said Gar. ‘Her life is circumscribed by study. She has yet to come to know them as I have these past months.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Borne agreed. ‘I hope it is that and nothing more. She’ll be queen soon enough and then it will be too late …’

  Gar felt his heart constrict. ‘Again you raise the spectre of a diminishing hourglass, sir.’ His voice sounded harsh, almost accusing. ‘What haven’t I been told? I wish you’d confide in me. I’m no longer a child. Are you unwell?’

  Startled, Borne lifted his head to look at him, then smiled. ‘Unwell? Why, no. No more than usual. Did I frighten you? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.’

  ‘You look tired,’ said Gar, his voice low.

  ‘I am, a little,’ Borne admitted. ‘It’s summer, and nearly time for harvest. The magic is strong now. Difficult to contain. Less a matter of subtlety, and more of brute strength. Today’s WeatherWorking has given me a headache, that’s all. It’s nothing. There’s no need to fret on my behalf.’

  But Gar, staring at him, thought there was. He looked weary. Worn down. ‘I wish I could help you,’ he said, his throat tight and hurting.

  ‘You help me every day,’ his father said firmly. ‘You do as much as any member of either Council. More. Sometimes I think you do too much. When was the last time you went out riding with friends, hmm? Frolicked on a picnic? Asked a pretty girl to dance?’

  Discomfited, Gar shrugged. ‘I’ve been busy.’

  ‘Yes, I know!’ Borne retorted. ‘It seems of late that every time I see you your nose is in a book or you’re rushing off to yet another meeting somewhere. You’re a young man, Gar, with a lifetime of meetings and books ahead of you. There’s more to living than work, my son. You must make time for entertainment, for amusement.’ He smiled, an anxious upturn of lips. ‘For romance.’

  ‘Father …’

  Borne slapped the table with the flat of his hand. ‘If you tell me once more you’re determined to deny yourself a wife and children, I promise I’ll become angry. Gar, you can’t—’

  ‘Please, Father!’ Gar flung himself away to stand with his back turned, so he didn’t have to see the look in his father’s eyes. ‘I beg you, not again. The choice is mine and it’s made. Please respect my right to make it, even if you don’t agree with the decision.’

  ‘How can I agree with it?’ Borne cried. ‘It’s the wrong one!’

  Gar turned around, made himself stare steadily into his father’s face. ‘For you. Not for me.’

  Borne’s imploring hands reached out across the dinner table towards him. ‘But Nix says—’

  ‘That he can give no guarantees. A child of my body might well be fully functional … or it might not. I can’t take the chance. I won’t. Besides, there’s still Fane. She’ll give you grandchildren. She’ll continue House Torvig’s line.’

  Borne surged to his feet then, on a roar of anger. ‘Unfair! Monstrous unfair! Do you think I care only for the line?’

  ‘If you didn’t care,’ said Gar, distantly, ‘you never would’ve fought with the Privy Council for the right to conceive her. You and Durm would’ve chosen the next WeatherWorker from amongst the foremost Doranen in the kingdom. It’s all right. I understand. It’s why I’ve chosen this path.’ He held his father’s gaze and added, gently, ‘You know I’m right, Father.’

  The king’s eyes were bright with anguish. ‘I do not!’

  Gar smiled. ‘Yes, you do. As things stand, I’m just … an unfortunate aberration. Inconvenient, but not threatening. Could you say the same if I were to have a child, and that child were … like me? That would no longer be considered an aberration. It’d be seen as a pattern and a shadow would fall over Fane. Before we knew it men like Conroyd Jarralt would be arguing that our line is tainted, that it’s grown weak, that the crown would be safer on a different head. His head. Even though some would argue his line has a taint all its own. And so it would begin again: the nightmare of dynastic warfare, the struggle for the throne, and who knows where it would end? The last such war brought us to the brink of disaster and the Wall nearly to ruin. You didn’t raise a son so selfish that he’d drag a whole kingdom to the edge of that abyss just to spare himself a little loneliness.’

  Silence, then, as Borne struggled … failed … to find an argument he could stand against his son’s austere logic. ‘You’ve never told me any of this before. Never explained why …’

  Gar bit his lip. ‘Talking about it doesn’t change anything, it only—’

  ‘Makes things harder,’ Borne whispered. ‘I’m sorry.’ He turned away then, pressing his sleeve to his face.

  ‘Don’t be,’ said Gar, his voice a hair’s-breadth from breaking. ‘It’s not your fault. It’s not anybody’s fault. It’s just the way things are.’

  ‘Is there something I can do? Tell me what I can do.’

  ‘You can accept my decision. And promise me you’ll never question it again.’

  Silence. Gar waited, holding his breath.

  At last his father nodded, his back still turned, his shoulders bowed.

  Gar released the air from his aching lungs. ‘Thank you.’

  His father straightened and turned around. In his face nothing but determined good humour, all lingering traces of pain vanished. Banished. As though their last exchange had happened months ago. Or not at all. He sat.

  ‘So. You’re set on having this fisherman fellow as your assistant, are you?’

  Weak with relief, Gar eased himself back into his own chair. ‘I took him with me to Justice Hall yesterday. For – an unsophisticated labourer, was it? – he demonstrated a remarkably keen
grasp of legal niceties and a fine sense of right and wrong. Not to mention he saw through my motives for taking him there as though they were glass. Asher will grow into the task, Father, and not let me down. I’m sure of it. What’s more, I think you’ll like him too. Though he’s rough around the edges, still there’s a quality to him I know you’ll recognise, and approve.’

  His father was frowning. ‘Justice Hall,’ he murmured. ‘A bad business, that. We were lucky to catch the rot before it spread any further. You did good work yesterday, my son. I’m proud.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Gar, and let his warm pleasure show.

  Pleased by that, smiling again, his father summoned the carafe closer with a snap of his fingers and refilled their goblets. ‘So. When do I get to meet this roughly likeable Asher, that I may judge his virtues for myself?’

  Gar grinned. It only felt a little forced. ‘Actually I thought I’d bring him to the next Privy Council meeting.’

  His father snorted. ‘After he’s been publicly announced as your assistant, you mean? In other words, you’re putting off dealing with Jarralt’s inevitable tantrum for as long as possible.’

  ‘You don’t approve of the tactic?’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Borne replied. ‘If you hadn’t suggested it, I would’ve.’ He took another mouthful of wine and rolled it savouringly over his tongue before swallowing. ‘You do realise you’re throwing your assistant into the deep end?’

  ‘Well,’ said Gar, shrugging, ‘he is a fisherman, Father. I’m sure he knows how to swim.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Borne lifted his goblet in salute, and warning. ‘Let us hope you’re right, my son … for his sake, and the sake of us all.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  With a sigh of satisfied weariness Dathne closed her accounts book and put down her pen. Recordkeeping was a tiresome chore but it had to be done. And there were times, especially after a brisk day’s trading, when she almost found it pleasant. Although the bookshop was little more than an excuse for her presence in the City, she did enjoy running it, was relieved she had a knack for business. Closure of the bookshop would lead to awkward disruptions and, worse, would interfere with her breezy access to both Tower and palace – access that was vital now that Asher had arrived to usher in the Final Days.

  The Final Days. It was at once a terrible and irritating phrase, raising questions without answers, fears without remedy. For one thing, how many of them were there? A month’s worth? A summer’s? A whole year? Was Lur living them now or were they not due to arrive until this time next year, perhaps? Could it be that Asher’s arrival in Dorana was merely … Prophecy clearing its throat?

  She had absolutely no idea. Prophecy didn’t say.

  In the Final Days shall come the Innocent Mage, born to save the world from blood and death.

  He shall enter the House of the Usurper

  He shall learn their ways

  He shall earn their love

  He shall lay down his life

  And Jervale’s Heir shall know him, and guide him, and enlighten him not.

  That was it. That was all she had to help her, enlighten her, those few lines she’d been gifted with on her first day as Jervale’s Heir.

  Obscure didn’t begin to describe it. What a shame her revered ancestor hadn’t left a calendar complete with helpful hints and important dates marked in red to go with his damned foretelling.

  Every night since Asher had at long last tumbled out of her dreams and into her life she’d gone to bed with the same prayer on her lips, in her heart: Jervale, send me another sign. Guide my steps. Show me what to do next.

  But Jervale remained stubbornly silent.

  A whisper from the shadows of her mind said: What if your prayers go unanswered because Jervale is as blind as you? What if he knows nothing beyond the verse he scribbled down all those centuries ago, when the Olken and the Doranen made their fateful pact? Or … what if he can’t even hear you?

  Shuddering, Dathne shoved her accounts book into the till and slammed shut the drawer. No. She wouldn’t believe that. Couldn’t believe that. Couldn’t even let herself wonder. The kingdom of Lur depended on her remaining cool and controlled and confident.

  There was no place in her life for doubt.

  With the last of the day’s shopkeeping duties seen to, habit sent her back to the front door, to double-check the locks. Not that theft was likely. The penalties were severe and the City Guard vigilant, but when young men drank an ale or three too many, as they were sadly wont to do, what might seem inadvisable in the sober light of day often became a rattling good idea in the tipsy rollick of the night.

  Approaching the front window display of Vev Gertsik’s latest romance she felt the tingle of magic, a breath of invisible power, breeze over her exposed skin. She frowned, shivering. It was the only drawback to her chosen, necessary profession: the constant whispering hum of Doranen books.

  The Doranen disdained the use of ink and roller, the painstaking assemblage of type by industrious, un-magical fingers. Not for them the sweat of laborious effort, the rattling, banging cheer of the typesetting workshop where Olken men and women used nimble skill to transform manuscripts into books that wore the badge of their imperfect creation proudly, like a flag.

  No. Doranen books were sleek and polished and perfect. No misaligned letters, no smudging, no bleeding of colour on cover or frontispiece. Doranen books were birthed by spells and charms woven in a seamless song to call forth smooth pages and immaculate bindings. They attained a symmetry that the Olken Bookmakers’ Guild could admire but never match.

  As she checked the locked front door Dathne eyed askance the Gertsik book’s cover with its languishing blonde heroine and stalwart blond hero locked in an unlikely embrace. The author’s romances flew off the shelves almost as fast as they were unpacked. Gertsik was the darling of the Doranen, and a good many Olken readers as well. But Dathne couldn’t bring herself to read them or approve of those Olken who did. Even though it wasn’t their fault they were ignorant of all the other stories that could be, should be, told. Their own stories. Olken stories.

  Vev Gertsik wrote soppy tales of Doranen love set in their Old Days, centuries dead and gone now and thus ripe for romanticising. The Old Days, when Doranen magic was limitless, when Barl and her lover Morgan had kissed, not killed, and war was as unthinkable as exile.

  The Old Days, before civil strife and the desperate pitting of mage against mage had riven the long-lost land of Dorana with bloody lightning and given birth to a monster for whom no repression was too harsh, no punishment too cruel, no dark magic unimaginable. The Old Days, which had seen Barl and the other survivors of that terrible conflict stumble from their ruined cities in search of peace and freedom and a land where the monster Morg could not find them.

  Before the coming of the Doranen the Olken had called Lur their own. They’d lived in thriving rural communities bound together by a dedication to the rhythms of life in all its tempestuous beauty and stark danger. The Olken of those long-dead days had lived small lives, true, but that didn’t mean they were without value. On the contrary, those Olken lives had been priceless because they were theirs and wholly theirs. Untouched by foreign hands. Uncorrupted by an alien magic.

  But there were no books written about the Old Days of the Olken. There couldn’t be. Almost no-one alive in these modern times knew that once, before the coming of the fair-haired Doranen with their brash and brutal magic, the Olken had possessed power of their own. A soft and singing earth magic that bound them to the land and to each other without the need for mastery or control.

  The only Olken who still recalled that magic, the way things used to be, belonged to the Circle. Sworn to secrecy and the scant words of a prophecy they didn’t understand but were willing to die for, they remembered. In silence and sad dreams they kept the buried truth alive.

  The loss of her people’s heritage wrung Dathne’s heart, though it had happened centuries ago. She would never accept that w
hat they’d lost – no, what they’d given away, surrendered, sold – was worthless, no matter how glittering the gift in exchange. How safe and secure the life that had replaced it. And she’d sworn a fierce vow that one day every last Olken man, woman and child would learn their true heritage, reclaim their power, and that the bookshops of Lur would abound with stories of their Old Days.

  If, after the Final Days were ended, there were still bookshops. If there was still a Lur.

  Impatient, Dathne turned away from the locked front door and the book display, tugging at her haphazardly braided hair. That was enough maudlin sentimentality for one day. She had dinner to prepare yet, and after that orders to wrap ready for the morning’s mail coach. With a swish of her skirts she headed out to the back of the shop and the staircase that led up to her small apartment.

  The vision smote her halfway to the apartment door. Tripped her and sprawled her face down against the wooden stairs. She tried to rise. Failed, limbs leaden. She felt a tightness in her chest, heard a moan die in her throat. Her head moved restlessly against the scuffed timber, scraping her cheek. Her clutching fingers found splinters.

  With her eyes shut tight and her mind a soundless scream of protest, she saw the future she’d been born to kill.

  Hailstones of fire raining down from a sky the colour of clotted blood. Strong proud trees split asunder by spears of lightning. The River Gant rising, rising. Funnels of green cloud reaching thin, cruel fingers to pluck whole houses from the earth and fling them stone by stone by human bone into the howling winds. The Wall, pulsing, writhing, great holes like some gross leprous disease turning it to tatters. Broken bleeding bodies flung heedless into piles, into holes. Discarded. Disdained. And pressing down upon her an enormous smothering weight, crushing the air from her lungs and strangling the pulse in her veins. Within it a baleful intelligence: malevolent, insatiable and infinitely patient, squatting like a toad. Watching. Waiting.