The Innocent Mage Read online

  The air in the sealed library smelled peculiar. Faded. Stretched. It tickled Durm’s nose and his throat. He stifled a cough and stared around the chamber as the others spread out, exclaiming. The room was larger than he’d imagined, and every square foot of it was crammed with laden bookshelves. Taller than Borne, they marched in rows, formed little alcoves, lined every available inch of wall. Squashed to the side of the crowded room was a desk with three drawers and a lumpily padded chair. On the face of it, an unremarkable place … especially when one considered the remarkable nature of that ward.

  Durm fought a shiver. His teeth were still vibrating from its residual power and his skin felt lightly scorched. On the whole, an unpleasant experience.

  But worth it.

  I have broken Barl’s Seal. The Seal of Blessed Barl herself, greatest magician in the history of Dorana.

  And I broke it.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ the king asked, turning back to him. ‘The residual power in that ward was … well, I can scarcely believe it, and I saw it with my own eyes. I can’t imagine what it felt like.’

  No, Borne, you couldn’t. He waved a deprecating hand. ‘I’m fine, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Are you certain of that?’

  ‘I admit to a moment of discomfort, but only a moment, and it passed swiftly.’ Unlike the triumph, which would last a lifetime.

  ‘You never cease to impress me,’ Borne said, shaking his head. Then his smile faded. ‘Durm – you know it was never a matter of not trusting you.’

  Dear Borne. A good man, right to the marrow of his thinning bones. Racked always with cares and concerns and a duty that overwhelmed his strength. Haunted by the ghosts of old decisions. Forever doubting. ‘I know,’ he replied. Just as he knew, with sorrow, that in this matter, where the king’s judgement was concerned, trust was something in short supply. Kings came, and kings went, but magic … magic lived forever. And it was up to the kingdom’s Master Mage, keeper of the Magia Majestica, guardian of the Weather Orb, to ensure it. To give his or her life, if necessary, to its jealous preservation.

  So Borne would burn Barl’s books of magic, would he?

  Over my dead body, old friend. Over my dead and rotting body.

  ‘It’s incredible!’ the queen exclaimed, running hesitant fingers along the spines of the books before her. ‘As though the door were closed on them only yesterday. There’s been a strong preserving spell cast here. Can you feel it?’ She glanced at him. ‘But I think it’s fading, Durm, don’t you?’

  He shut his eyes and stretched out with that part of his mind concerned with all things magical. Felt the weft and the warp of the incantation. Where it held, and where it was threadbare and unravelling. ‘Yes,’ he agreed, as he marvelled at the power of an enchantment that could last more than half a millennium. Let there be spells here, oh, let there be spells. We have laboured too long in ignorance. ‘I shall cast another before we leave, to be certain nothing here can be damaged.’

  ‘Yes, you must,’ said Gar, horrified. ‘This place, these books, are a find of monumental significance. Whatever we need not destroy must be protected.’

  Borne stared at the gaping hole in the ceiling. The spilling sunlight cast his fever-wasted features into sharp relief. For all his remarkable recovery, still he had meagre strength. Durm watched him marvel at the feat of magic used to keep the chamber hidden for so long, and felt a flood of affection. He needs me now more than ever before, to ease his burden. To make the difficult decisions for him. That terrible illness has cost him dearly. He is lost in a wilderness and cannot see the way. But I can. I can.

  ‘We’ve some six hours before I must go up to the Weather Chamber,’ Borne said. ‘Let’s see what we can find in that time, hmm?’

  Ever headstrong, Fane objected. ‘I don’t see why we should stop exploring just because you’re called to the night’s WeatherWorking, Papa.’

  ‘Because I wish it. Fane …’ Borne softened his tone. ‘This library cannot become an obsession. I have duties. You have your studies. Six hours is a long time. Do you really want to waste them in argument?’

  ‘But, Papa, even with four of us we won’t be able to check every last book today. There must be hundreds! Why don’t we send for help? Lord Jarralt, or—’

  ‘No!’ Borne took his daughter’s chin between his fingers and tilted her face upwards. Blazed his eyes into hers. ‘There will be no discussion of this place or what we find in it, is that clear? Not until I’m sure it’s safe. Not until I know precisely what we’ve found.’

  Fane jerked her chin free. ‘But the Privy Council—’

  ‘Answers to me,’ Borne said. ‘Not I to it. I bear the ultimate responsibility here, Fane. The final authority is mine.’

  ‘Father’s right,’ Gar told her. ‘The last thing we need is politics complicating matters.’

  With an ease perfected by years of practice, Durm hid his contempt. As though a cripple’s opinion were relevant, or required. He was here on sufferance, nothing more.

  ‘Come,’ said the queen, and touched her daughter lightly on the shoulder. ‘We can work along this shelf together.’

  ‘Trust me, Fane,’ Borne said, and kissed her forehead. ‘I know I’m only your father, but I do know what I’m doing, truly.’

  She looked to him, then. To her beloved mentor, Durm. Just the smallest flick of her eyes and the merest twitch of one eyebrow. His precious Fane. The child of his heart, the daughter of his mind and magic. A perfect blending of her parents, yet moulded in his image. Trained and tutored and steeped in the ways of enchantment, the lore of Magia Majestica. Soon she would be a queen unsurpassed in the history of Lur. In the history of all magical kingdoms, wherever they might be. If any existed beyond the Wall.

  He nodded at her, frowning lightly, and she sighed. Pulled a face at her blood-and-bone father. ‘All right,’ she answered both of them. ‘If you say so. But let’s get on then! Time’s wasting!’

  Again they separated, each taking a different direction. Gar pulled a book from a shelf above his head and opened it. ‘It’s written in the Old Tongue. Pure as the day Barl came over the mountains.’

  Fane glanced over her shoulder. ‘Can you read it?’

  He gave her a dark look. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, then, what does it say?’

  Give the cripple his due, he was an excellent scholar with a talent for language and history. He’d even made a study of the original Olken tongue, though why anyone would bother Durm couldn’t fathom. Such endeavours doubtless endeared him to the likes of that repellent Asher, of course, and the native populace in general. Made him feel … important. Lacking magic, doubtless he needed something to fill the void. It was a harmless enough pursuit and it made Borne and the queen happy. For himself he didn’t much care, really. Once the boy’s impediment had been identified, the prince had ceased to be of the least interest to him.

  Gar was frowning over the book’s first few pages. ‘The print is very small,’ he muttered. ‘A Doranen typeface I’ve never seen before …’

  ‘You can’t read it,’ said Fane, and turned away.

  ‘I think it’s a story,’ he said, and turned more pages. ‘I think it’s – it’s a romance.’ He laughed.

  ‘What?’ Fane cried. Took three steps to join him, reached out and plucked the book from his unresisting fingers. ‘It can’t be. You’re making it up. Papa, tell him to take this seriously!’

  ‘Let me see,’ said Dana, and looked for herself. ‘Well, I’m nowhere near as accomplished as Gar in reading Old Tongue but I think he might be right. Never mind. I was wanting something new to read and I’ve always been partial to romance. This will make a nice change from Vev Gertsik. I find her a trifle florid, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Stop fretting, Fane,’ Borne advised. ‘And keep searching. If you find anything of a less frivolous nature I suggest you put it on the table there so we can look at it more carefully in due course.’

  ‘Huh,’ said Fane. ‘
Romance.’ Complaining under her breath, she turned back to the bookshelves.

  A muttering silence fell as they began to search the shelves in earnest. Gradually the pile of books on the table grew as they each found something to spark interest or excitement.

  For himself, Durm was circumspect. Closing his senses to the brief laughter, the exclamations of triumph, the cries of wonder, he quested silent and single-minded for his heart’s desire. To maintain appearances he chose volumes at random and added them to the collection on the table. Histories. Fairy tales. Folklore. Of a certain interest, to be sure, but of little value compared with the treasure he sought. That he knew must be here somewhere. Nobody sealed a room for six centuries to protect fairy tales. Certainly not a magician like Barl.

  Fane balanced her latest find on a crowded corner of the table and pouted. ‘No magical treatises yet,’ she said sadly. ‘And it’s been nearly three hours.’

  ‘There are still a lot of shelves to investigate,’ the queen consoled her. ‘You musn’t be so easily discouraged.’

  Fane slumped onto the chair with a disconsolate sigh. ‘But what if we don’t find anything useful?’

  Gar laughed. ‘Only you could be so short-sighted, Fane. Most of these books in some way or another deal with the original Dorana. The land of our ancestors. Our home, in a way.’

  ‘I couldn’t care less about what happened six centuries ago in a country that probably doesn’t exist any more,’ she retorted. ‘The only place that matters now is Lur. And the only thing that matters is finding a book that tells us more about the enchantments our ancestors knew. The ones we’ve lost. The ones we never knew existed. Durm’s right,’ she added, and glanced at him, bestowing approval. ‘That’s our true heritage. The only heritage that counts. Not that you’d understand.’ To emphasise her point, she pulled out the desk’s top drawer and banged it shut again, hard.

  Something inside the drawer rattled. Rolled. Curious, she slid it open again and put her hand inside. When she pulled it out her fingers were clasped tight about something clear and round and the size of an orange.

  Gar, tight-lipped and smarting – though she’d only spoken the truth and it was past time he accepted the facts and stopped spitting in the wind – put aside the book he held. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, and unfurled her fingers. ‘A portrait.’

  Another tedious squabble averted. Borne and the queen exchanged relieved glances and joined their children around the table. Dana caught a proper look at the sphere, and her face contracted in disgust. ‘Barl’s mercy! Get rid of it, Fane. Put it back in the drawer.’

  Fane ignored her. Instead lifted the sphere until it was level with her eyes and stared intently at the face contained within it. A coldly handsome face, it was, with ice-blue eyes and hair so pale it looked silver. Extravagant cheekbones. Imperious nose. Lips too full and sensuous for a man.

  ‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ she breathed. ‘Morgan. Morg. I always wondered what he looked like.’

  ‘Heed your mother,’ Borne said harshly. ‘Put it away. Better yet, destroy it. He was a monster.’

  ‘No!’ said Fane, and curved her hands protectively around the sphere and the face within it. ‘It’s only a portrait, it can’t hurt anybody. It must have been Barl’s. She must have kept it. Why would she keep it if there was any danger?’ She loosened her grip and stared again at the haughty face of evil. ‘He was so handsome. None of the history books ever mentioned he was handsome.’

  With a cry of revulsion Borne pulled her round to face him. ‘What does that signify? Fair of face he may have been but he was even fouler of heart, which is all that matters! Barl died to keep this kingdom safe from him, and for six hundred years the kings and queens of Lur have spent their lives ensuring her sacrifice was not in vain. I have spent my life upholding that sacred trust. My life, Fane. And next it will be your turn to stand alone in the Weather Chamber with the weight of the Wall crushing your bones to powder. To spend your life in Barl’s service in the full knowledge that if you fail you condemn a kingdom to catastrophe. All because of him. Because of Morg. You know this. You know this. And yet you can sit there and simper and say he was handsome?’

  As Fane shrank before the king’s outrage, pale and brimming with tears, he wrenched the sphere from her loosened clasp and hurled it at the shielded ceiling.

  In light and in sound, the sphere vanished.

  The queen caught Borne’s trembling hands between her own, carried them to her lips and kissed them. ‘She meant no harm, my love. She doesn’t understand yet. How can she?’

  ‘She’s not a child any longer!’ Borne retorted, and pulled his hands free. ‘She is the Weather Worker-in-Waiting, and childhood is yesterday’s dream. Durm! What say you to this? I thought you had taught her more than just the right words in the right order at the right time!’

  The rebuke, although unjustified, was expected. Pain and fear had made Borne short-tempered of late. Clasping his hands behind his back Durm offered the king a shallow bow. ‘Majesty. You are right, of course. But while it is true that Morg, in his dedication to dark magics and his unquenchable quest for power, split asunder our ancestral land and drove our forbears into exile and suffering, he was also Morgan, the beloved of our beloved Barl. Perhaps it’s not such a bad thing that Her Highness reminds us of that. Certainly it serves to show just how great was her sacrifice, and how even love cannot overcome all.’

  ‘We must agree to disagree about love,’ the queen said, reaching again for Borne’s hand, ‘but as for the rest … you make your point, Durm.’

  As always, Borne’s anger died as quickly as it ignited. He put a contrite arm about Fane’s shoulders and held her tightly. ‘Forgive me, daughter. Illness has left me out of sorts. I know you meant no harm. But think on what I said and you’ll discover that I am right.’

  ‘I know you are,’ Fane replied, still shaken. ‘All I meant was that it’s sad. She loved him but she had to run away to be safe from him. And then she had to die, to make sure.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Borne. ‘Yes. It is sad.’

  ‘Do you think he ever loved her?’ asked Fane. ‘Really? Truly?’

  Borne shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

  Gently, the queen said, ‘It’s likely that he did. Once. Before his soul was warped by the black magics he embraced. You see, my darling Fane, even the purest heart cannot withstand such evil. Magic isn’t always benevolent and kind.’

  Durm had to bite his lip and turn away at that. Such sentimental drivel! She and Borne were as bad as each other. Magic was a tool, nothing more. It served whatever purpose its wielder decreed and was no more benevolent or evil than … than … a chair!

  With a strained smile Borne said, ‘Come. Let’s keep looking. I admit, though I know you’re disappointed, Fane, I find the failure to discover any magical treatises encouraging. Not all knowledge is a blessing.’

  And there, sad to say, was the difference between them laid bare as bones. There could be no meeting of minds and hearts in this matter. With that simple declaration Borne showed himself to be unfit, as a mage, to caretake the secrets Barl had hidden somewhere in her lost library.

  Fear not, brave lady. I shall find your books of magics and protect them from the well-meaning blunders of my friend. Our heritage will be saved, I swear on my oath as Master Magician.

  He returned to the search, and an hour later was rewarded.

  It was some strange, unrecognised instinct that drove him into the rib-crushingly small alcove tucked away in one dark corner of the library. A tickle in the mind that enticed, beckoned. Sang with promise and set his heart to racing. Startled, he glanced at Borne, the queen, Fane. Were they suddenly deaf and numbed, then, as crippled as the prince, that they did not feel it? How could that be? It was a mystery …

  Or was it? Perhaps this was meant. Perhaps this was a simple case of one Master Magician speaking across the centuries to another. Perhaps he was the only one capa
ble of sensing the presence of such spells. Borne was a powerful magician, but his talents had been trained to the weather, shaped and fashioned for a single purpose. Other buds, other shoots, had been ruthlessly pruned years ago. The queen, well, she had talent enough but used it for womanly pursuits only. Hers was a decorous and dainty application of magic. And Fane, for all she burned bright with a raw power unseen for generations, she was still a student. Inexperienced. Her palate had potential, yes, but was yet too broad for subtle flavours.

  So Barl’s magic sang for him, and him alone.

  Unhurried, maintaining his air of scholarly distraction, he eased himself into the small, book-lined space and conjured glimfire to banish the shadows. The light danced along the spines of leather-bound journals pressed cover to cover in the awkward alcove. He trailed his fingers along them and felt the magic sizzle beneath his skin.

  Somewhere in here … somewhere …

  Finding the book was like kissing a lightning bolt. He bit his lip to blood to stop from crying out.

  It was a slender volume. Cloth-bound, and tucked between the pages of some obscure text on falconry. Trembling, he freed it from captivity and opened the cover. A diary. Handwritten, the ink faded but legible, a collection of notes, a recitation of deeds accomplished, and yes! oh yes! a listing of incantations, pages of them, and they were completely new, had never been heard of before in this kingdom. And all in a handwriting he knew so well, from the WeatherWorking notes and strictures she’d left behind.

  This was Barl’s diary. These were her secrets. This was what had called to him.

  He could have moaned his excitement out loud.

  Beyond the alcove, the prince was saying, ‘—a lifetime’s work, Father. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.’

  I believe I am familiar with the feeling, boy.

  ‘It’s certainly a miraculous collection of books, Gar,’ Borne agreed. ‘I must say, given the wide range of subject matter and its relative mundanity, I’m at something of a loss to understand why Barl and her followers made such efforts to take this collection with them when they fled.’