The Reluctant Mage Page 30

  Remembering the paltry magics he’d been permitted in Lur, remembering the way his father had raged, and Ain Freidin had raged, he felt his own buried temper stir. Father had been right about this much, at least. These Doranen magics should never have been denied them, should never have been kept secret. Barl had no right to leave them behind in Dorana to die.

  This was our birthright. This was our heritage. And out of fear we let ourselves be gelded into Olken. We lost ourselves. No. We threw ourselves away.

  Like a starving man he feasted on book after book. Glutted himself and cursed the need to pause, to eat, to sleep, to piss. The outside world stopped mattering. All he cared for was the magic.

  Once, standing at the library window as he let the weight of his newfound knowledge settle into his bones, he saw a horde of beasts march down the carriageway towards the road leading to Elvado. Even as his skin crawled he had to admire their brutish perfection. Another time he saw beasts herding a motley collection of humans along the carriageway up to the mansion. He counted some fifty captives. From the look of them they weren’t hosts to any more of Morg’s sundered pieces, which meant they would soon walk back down the carriageway with hides and horns and tails.

  Besides, if Morg had sensed the coming of any more hosts he’d have sent for his tame, compliant Doranen to go and collect them.

  The temptation to use what he was learning burned him with every breath he took. But he knew better. Disobedience would lose him what little of Morg’s trust he’d so far earned, and to defeat such a sorcerer he must be in his trust completely.

  And I will defeat him. I must. Until Morg is dead I can’t return Dorana to the Doranen.

  Sometimes, before he could stop himself, he did think of Rafel. He did wonder if the Olken was still alive inside his stolen body—and wondered if there was yet any way to reach him.

  But every time he let himself think it might, just might, be possible, he straightaway abandoned the hope. That brief glimpse of Asher’s son had shown him a man being slowly extinguished. And surely, even if there was any part of Rafel remaining when Morg was defeated… if he was defeated… that part of him could not possibly remain sound. Sarle Baden and the idiot Goose and every witless, gibbering host brought to Morg from the wilderness, they were all proof that no mere mortal’s mind survived holding a piece of Morg, no matter how briefly.

  And Rafel held more pieces than anyone ever had—and for longer.

  If only I knew how many more were still to come. If only I knew how much more powerful Morg will be.

  But short of asking the sorcerer outright, he’d never know. Not until he was witness to some great feat of magic. And by then… by then… it might be too late.

  If it’s not too late already. If Dorana and my people aren’t already lost.

  Eighteen days after his studies began, Morg sauntered into the library.

  “Well, Arlin? Are you finished? Are you educated?”

  Arlin looked at the pile of books he was yet to tackle, neatly stacked on the floor beside his chair at the large reading table. How many were left? Thirty or so? Not a bad effort, considering he’d started with nearly sixty. He was so full of new magic he thought he might fly apart at the seams.

  He bowed, because Morg expected it. “Master, I’m certainly more educated now than I was the last time we spoke.”

  The sorcerer laughed. “I’m pleased to hear it.”

  There was something different about him. He seemed brittle. On edge. Watching him pace from wall to wall, from shelf to shelf, Arlin cleared his throat.

  “Master, is there something you need? Something I can do for you?”

  “Yes,” said Morg, without pausing. “You can stop prattling, Lord Garrick. And I advise you to do so—if you want to keep your tongue.”

  Ah. He pulled back to him the book he’d pushed aside on Morg’s entrance, lowered his gaze and busied himself with reading.

  Three pages later, Morg stopped pacing. “Rafel truly believed you would oppose me, Arlin. He did not believe you would kill Fernel Pintte. He thought that despite your differences you and he could find common ground against me.”

  Arlin shrugged. “He thought wrong.”

  “Did he?” In the light from the window Morg’s jewelled rings sparkled as he smoothed back his hair. A familiar gesture, made less familiar now by an undercurrent of tension. “And I’m to believe that self-serving declaration, am I?”

  For a second time he pushed his precious book of magic aside. “Master, have I done something to displease you?”

  “I don’t know,” said Morg, his eyes narrowed. “Have you?”

  Breathe, Arlin. Sweetly. Show him your best face.

  “Not to my knowledge, Master. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done because you asked it of me. Is that displeasing?”

  Morg walked from the window to the table and looked down at him. “That was insolent.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

  The blow came hard and fast and knocked him from his chair to the floor. Morg stared down at him, dispassionate.

  “Why do you think I’ll brook insolence from you?”

  One of Morg’s rings had opened the flesh over his right cheekbone. He could feel the blood trickling, carving a thin line through the pain.

  “You have no answer?” said Morg. “Why, Lord Garrick, what has happened to that glib tongue of yours?”

  He nearly said, You told me to hold it. But that would be tantamount to cutting his own throat. Braced on his elbows, he lifted his head. “Master, I don’t know what to say. You’re angry. I don’t know why. I’m afraid that however I answer, I will be found wanting—and you’ll punish me.”

  Hissing, Morg flung about and returned to the window. Arlin let his eyes close, just for a moment. It was life with his father, all over again. The violent rages. The casual beatings. His dutiful obedience that was always, always, called into question.

  I survived that. I will survive this.

  Warily he sat up, but didn’t stand. That too would be a deadly mistake. He could feel his bruised, bleeding flesh swelling. Throbbing. He’d memorised some healing incants found in one of the sorcerer’s books, but it was too dangerous to summon his power. Best he play Olken and sit dumb on the floor.

  Long minutes of silence. And then, still standing with his back to the chamber, Morg stiffened his spine. “You know already I am sundered, Arlin. That is no secret. What is secret, what I tell you now, is that I cannot bring all the pieces of myself home.” His voice was tight, as though speaking was almost beyond him. “Some are dead. Some are dying as we speak. And when they die, I can feel it. As though Asher had a knife in his hand and cut from me pieces of my living flesh. I am bleeding. I am… diminished.”

  Arlin felt his heart leap. If I was a hypocrite I’d praise Barl for that. He made sure to speak softly. “Master, I find that hard to believe.”

  Morg laughed, without amusement. “Believe it. Lord Garrick, I am not the sorcerer I was.”

  And if that’s true, why are you telling me?

  “Master,” he said, with all the earnest sympathy he could summon, “you will be that sorcerer again.”

  Turning, his eyes sullen, Morg nodded. “Yes. But it will take time.”

  “Do you not have time? Do you not have all the time in the world?”

  Another hiss of rage. Morg’s face twisted with contempt. “If you knew what I have lost, little man, you would not ask such an ignorant question.”

  “Forgive me, Master,” he said quickly. “I am trying to understand.”

  “Are you?” Morg folded his arms and tapped his fingers to his forearm. “Perhaps you are.” He roamed his gaze about the shelves and shelves of books. “Have you not asked yourself why this mansion remains when the rest of Elvado—of Dorana—lies in sad ruins?”

  Of course he had, but he’d resigned himself to not knowing. “Yes, Master.”

  A hint of smile. “And yet you did not ask me.”

  �
�If I had needed to know, you would have told me.”

  This time Morg’s laughter was definitely amused. “Arlin… Arlin. Your father trained you well.”

  My father trained me better than you could ever imagine.

  A touch of eagerness, now. A hint of fawning hope. “I confess I would like to know, Master. If you feel inclined to tell me.”

  “Yes, I do feel inclined,” said Morg. “But only to suit my purpose. Do not mistake these confidences for an admission that we are equal.”

  Arlin looked down. “No, Master. Never.”

  “After the mage war—after I defeated every one of my enemies,” Morg continued, breaking his own silence, “I needed somewhere to live while I perfected myself. I returned here, to my family’s ancestral home. I had servants. My needs were tended. And I worked. Arlin, I worked as no mage before or since has ever worked. I cannot tell you the number of times I nearly perished, or share with you my sufferings as I pursued the greatest mage secrets.”

  That was a pity. He’d have liked to know more of Morg’s pain. “And you succeeded, Master,” he said, nothing but admiring. “You broke out of your cage of flesh and bone and became…”

  “The air,” Morg whispered. “I was free. Arlin, I was magic.”

  There was so much pain and longing in Morg’s voice he could almost imagine feeling sorry for the sorcerer. He could certainly feel envy.

  “It must have been glorious.”

  Morg’s eyes were glowing with the fervour of cherished memory. “It was.”

  “How long did it take you?”

  The fervent glow died. Morg’s eyes turned bitter cold. “Centuries.”

  Arlin felt that cold knife through him, as though any moment snow would fall from the ceiling and frost crackle over the window and the floor.

  I don’t have centuries. And I can’t let him have them, either. But I must make him think I want them, for him.

  The truth. The truth. He had to tell lies with the truth.

  “Yes, that first time it took centuries,” he said, warmly encouraging. “But must it take you so long again? You know what to do now, Master. You know—”

  “Yes, I know!” Morg shouted. “But I am not strong enough! I told you, Arlin, I am diminished. And it will take years for me to rebuild that lost strength. Those dead and dying sundered parts of me are years and years of toil and pain. I will not become my true self again with a mere snap of my fingers!”

  So much raw anguish. So little self-control. Heart thudding, Arlin risked climbing back to his feet. “How much is lost, Master? How far are you diminished?”

  Morg raised a finger. “Not so far or by so much that I cannot kill you where you stand.”

  Oh, careful. Be careful. “Yes, Master. Of course. But I wonder—” He had to know. He had to risk asking. Sickened, he made himself meet Morg’s terrible eyes. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because until I am myself again I must live in this world,” said Morg, as though the words stabbed him. “I must live in this prison named Rafel, a mortal man, and when I rule again I must rule as a mortal man. That means I need Elvado restored. It means I need men of power to command.”

  His pulse was racing. “Men like me, Master?”

  “Is there another man like you, Arlin?” Lazily contemptuous now, Morg smiled. “Rafel doesn’t think so. Rafel thinks that if you weren’t so corrupted, you could have been the greatest Doranen mage in Lur. You think so too, don’t you? It’s all right. You can admit it. I’ll not call you vain.”

  Rafel thought? And what would he know? He was ignorant of what it meant to be a Doranen mage. “What the Olken calls corruption, Master, I call ambition. I have power. I’m not ashamed of it. But in Lur I had no hope of becoming my true self.”

  Lightly, kindly, Morg stepped close enough to brush fingertips across his wounded face. “You have that hope here, Arlin. In Dorana. With me.”

  “I know,” he said. “Why do you think I killed Fernel Pintte?”

  Another smile, cruel this time. “I think you killed Fernel Pintte because you didn’t want to die.”

  His cut cheek still throbbing, Arlin knelt on the floor. Lowered his head until his chin touched his chest. “Master, command me. I am your man.”

  “Yes, Arlin. I think you are,” Morg murmured. “Rafel thinks you are too. He’s weeping again. I tell you, Lord Garrick, I could grow fat on his tears.”

  “Would that I could grow fat on them with you, Master.” Smiling, he looked up. “He can hear me?”

  “When I permit it, he can. Yes.”

  So here was his chance. Choose the right words, the right tone, and Morg would never doubt him again.

  Do I care if I hurt Rafel? What is his pain, compared to what I must achieve? It’s not like he can help me, trapped inside his own skull.

  “Then let him hear this,” he said, unleashing himself. “Fernel Pintte was only the start, Rafel. When we are done here in Dorana, when Elvado is restored to her beauty and the might of Morg again shudders through every land, then will the Olken be set into their rightful place. Every man, woman and child in Lur will wear the face of a beast because that’s all your peasant people ever were. Dumb, mindless animals, bred and born to serve.”

  Morg laughed, delighted. “He heard you. He’s howling. Now, Lord Garrick. On your feet. We have much work to do, you and I.”

  They rode from the mansion to Elvado with an escort of dravas. Deep into autumn now, the air was thin and cold, the sky sharp blue, the sun distant. Arlin had pulled on a leather coat but Morg rode in his silk sleeves, relishing the fresh wind’s bite. Daring it to discomfort him.

  At length they reached the ruined city of mages, Dorana’s cradle of learning. So silent, so haunted. All its beauty become decay. They rode along cracked and rutted streets to its heart, where Morg drew rein. Halting his own horse, hearing the dravas clatter to a stop behind them, Arlin looked around in grief and wonder. How many nights had his father dreamed of this place? Of this moment? How often had he and his friends, Sarle Baden especially, sat by the fire in the study drinking their brandy and imagining what they would find when they set foot in the Doranen’s long lost home?

  Would you have wept to see this, Father? To find Elvado so broken down and forgotten?

  Before them was an enormous ornamental pool full of dirt and dead leaves and dead, desiccated birds. It was tiled in a series of intricate mosaics but the pictures they formed were obscured by centuries of grime.

  He couldn’t bear it.

  With a word, with a whisper, all his newfound magic aching inside him, he dragged his fingers through the air and made beauty beautiful again.

  Morg stared at him.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said, flinching, his gaze fixed on his horse’s tangled black mane. “I didn’t use what I learned in the library. That magic was mine. It’s tame. It’s harmless. But—Master, I had to.”

  He sat there, waiting for another blow across the face.

  “Of course you had to,” said Morg. “Why else are we here?”

  Surprised, he risked looking up. “Master?”

  “Can I rule in rags, Arlin?” said Morg, his eyebrows raised. “Can I set my throne upon a dirty dais? Elvado must be made glittering again. It must again be the brightest jewel in my crown. Little lord, you and I have come here today for a working. Together we will restore Elvado to its highest splendour. Then—and only then—can I summon my disobedient subjects so they might kneel and renew their fealty to me.”

  Magework the whole city? By themselves? But—“Master, that will take days. Weeks, even.”

  Morg shrugged. “So? You’re the one who said I’ve all the time in the world.”

  “The whole city,” he murmured, imagining it. “Made new again. Made beautiful.”

  “Ha,” said Morg, pleased. “The idea appeals to you. It speaks to your romantic streak—a sadly Doranen weakness. But I’ll overlook it, this once, since it can be made to serve me.”
<
br />   Mageworking an entire city. An astonishing notion. And yes, one that appealed. Staring at the ornamental pool, letting his eyes caress the blue and crimson and emerald and black and gold and purple tiles, caress the mermaids and the unicorns and the dolphins and the eagles, Arlin remembered that time in his father’s study when he transmuted a crystal glass into a falcon. Remembered his pride in that beautiful thing—and the grief soon after when he was told to destroy it.

  “This pool has a fountain, you know,” said Morg. “Or it’s meant to. Make it dance again, Lord Garrick. Show me your worth.”

  And that didn’t mean a tame spell he’d brought with him from Lur. That meant using the magic he’d learned in Morg’s library. For a moment he sat still, his gaze blurring on the mosaics.

  If I do this, I’ll be changed. If I do this, I’ll have taken a step closer to him. I killed for him, and that was dreadful. So why do I fear that doing magic for him will be worse?

  “Arlin?”

  Such a gentle voice, when it wanted to be. Kind. Cajoling. Not unreasonable at all.

  I have to do it. I must. Or I’ll have killed that peasant Fernel Pintte for nothing.

  And besides… he really wanted to.

  It seemed the magic was waiting. He didn’t even have to think. He opened his mouth and the old Doranen words were there, ready on his eager tongue, and the triggering sigils burned like fire in his fingers.

  “Hync a’teah,” he whispered. “Tavek. Rot’u. M’hal.” With each word he traced a sigil on the air, laughing to see the green flames flare then swiftly die.

  Nothing. And then he felt a shiver in his blood. A distant rumbling in the earth beneath his horse’s hooves. For a moment he thought tremor and felt the breathless urge to run.

  Morg laughed at him. “Sapskull.”

  It was such a Rafel word he was shocked out of his fright. “Master?”

  “Look,” said Morg, and pointed. “Nicely done, Lord Garrick. Indeed, a good beginning. But we’ve a long way to go.”