Authors: Julie Dean Smith
“Blackmailing me into this alliance, are you?”
“You can think so, but you know that isn’t true. Frankly, it isn’t
my
crown he’s after.”
Durek chewed on his lip thoughtfully, trying to find a flaw in her plan. “But what about the corbals? If the Sarians know how to withstand them, the Sage will simply use them against us. Then what good will all of your proffered magicians be? I’d be right back where I am now.”
“Most of his people can’t resist them,” she replied. “In fact, I’ll wager that the men you sent against him in Eriston were carefully manipulated so that they encountered the only wizards in the Sage’s army who can. But you had no way of knowing that, and it’s in the Sage’s best interest to make you believe he has a greater advantage than he does. I can resist the corbals, it’s true, but only because I have a great deal of power.”
Durek pointed quizzically at the antechamber doors. “But he—”
“Jaren used a different sort of trick, I’m afraid,” she confessed, sensing that Durek would not take advantage of the knowledge. But as for others…“Although I’d rather you not pass that information along to your captain just yet.”
Athaya lifted her yet-untouched goblet and swallowed some of the fine Evarshot wine to soothe her dry throat; though she felt her words were having some effect on him, she remained anxious in his presence. Too much was at stake this time.
“This business about resisting corbals isn’t as imposing as it sounds,” she continued, hoping to allay his fears. “Just because I know how to stop a corbal crystal from hurting doesn’t mean I always can. I have to be ready for it.” Seeing Durek’s puzzled stare, she added, “It’s like a shield—the steel won’t help me if it’s resting at my side when the enemy strikes a blow. I can’t cast spells while I’m doing it. No wizard can. It takes too much concentration. If you ask Captain Parr, I suspect he’ll tell you that his corbal weapon was taken away before he and his men were pelted with magic.”
Vital as that fact was, Durek merely acknowledged it with a nod, his mind busily working on some other concern. “Why wouldn’t you want the Sage to win?” he asked abruptly. “He’s practically offering you the crown.”
“Not practically,” she corrected, “he already has. But for the price of Caithe’s enslavement.” Athaya met his pointed gaze. “I’ve rebelled against you in one thing only: the treatment of my people. I’ve never wanted your crown, no matter what Lukin and those like him have tried to make you believe.”
After pondering her words for a moment, Durek set his cup aside and walked quietly to the bay window overlooking the sea. For several minutes he let the breezes tousle his thinning hair, staring at the waves as if reading something in their motion that would tell him what to do. Once, he whirled on her suddenly, on the verge of ordering her from his sight, and then, trapped by his internal struggles, he turned his back to her again. He did not want her help, she knew that perfectly well, but he desperately needed it and the conflict was a torture to him.
When he next spoke, each word seemed forced out from the deepest part of him. “I assume you have… conditions?”
Athaya smothered the flare of triumph that blazed up inside her. Now was the time to tread carefully. Everything she wanted was within her grasp, but it could all slip away if she snatched at it too quickly. Durek was a proud man and needed to feel this was his doing as much as hers.
“First of all, I’d ask you to disband the Tribunal. I know you’ve never been entirely comfortable with their tactics, and if we’re to work together it makes no sense to allow them to continue persecuting my people.”
Durek nodded vaguely, neither granting nor denying her request. “And?”
Athaya swallowed, her throat parched as sand despite the wine she’d drunk. “And I want the Church to stop enforcing the rite of absolution. I can’t stop Archbishop Lukin and his priests from preaching against us if they want to, nor stop anyone from being absolved if they truly believe it’s the right thing to do. But I won’t have absolution forced upon anyone against their will. Besides,” she added, “until this campaign is over, we’ll need all the wizards we can get.”
Again, Durek nodded noncommittally. “And?”
“And I want it to be legal to teach magic in Caithe again. There would be no sense in freeing the Lorngeld from absolution if laws still exist forbidding them from being trained.”
Durek’s sidelong glance was darkly wry. “So basically, you want the same things you’ve always wanted.”
“Compared to what the Sage wants,” she replied, “my demands are rather benign. If we are successful, the Lorngeld gain their freedom and you get to keep your throne… not to mention your life. The Sage tried to take it once before,” she reminded him. “He’ll surely try again.”
Durek leaned against the windowsill and studied her in silence for a long time. She felt as if they had been separated since birth and he was searching her face for signs of a family resemblance. He was not seeing the wayward little sister of his youth, but a grown woman who, despite her peasant garb, was just as passionate about the future of her homeland and its citizens as he was. They simply possessed vastly different notions of what that future should be.
“Durek, I know we’ve never been close. But we have to work together in this. We’ll both lose everything if we don’t.”
With that, the breath went out of him. He had no choice but to accept her offer, and they both knew it. Nevertheless, he wasn’t desperate enough to give her everything she asked for so easily. “We’ll have to discuss your conditions in detail, of course. I can tolerate them on a temporary basis, but anything more than that will have to wait until your people have proven themselves trustworthy allies. We can renegotiate our agreement once this campaign is done. Assuming we’re both still around to do it,” he finished solemnly.
Athaya appraised him, looking for hidden meanings behind his words. He hadn’t promised not to betray her later once he had used her people to fight off the Sage, but at least he hadn’t refused to cooperate outright. It was as much as she could hope to get from him at this point in their precarious alliance, and she had to be content for now.
Durek steepled his fingers and tapped them together restlessly. “And I have a few conditions of my own. I don’t know where you’ve hidden him, but I want you to bring Nicolas back here where I can keep an eye on him. I won’t harm him, but he did try to kill me, intentionally or not, and he should be placed in my custody so I can have him watched.”
Athaya considered that for a moment. Nicolas couldn’t possibly remain in Adam’s care forever, and Master Hedric had already assured her that there was little chance of his attacking Durek again now that the brunt of the Sage’s compulsion had been broken. Besides, Delfarham was his home. And deep inside, she believed that Durek would not punish him.
“I can send Jaren to fetch him this very afternoon,” she offered. “But if I do, will you release Lord Gessinger? He is an old and frail man and can no longer threaten you. And it would please Cecile so.”
Durek stared blankly at her for a moment; he had utterly forgotten the old councillor. “Very well.” Then his eyes grew distant. “I suppose I could send him to Reyka to keep her company… and to deliver a few of Mailen’s playthings that she has asked for. I meant to send them days ago, but I wished to enclose a letter…”
He didn’t finish, but he didn’t have to. Athaya knew what he was thinking.
And I didn’t know what to say to her.
As long as he was granting boons, Athaya decided it couldn’t hurt to ask something for herself. “And technically, I’m still an outlaw. If we’re to work together, then it seems only proper to—”
“Yes, yes, I suppose you’re right,” he said gathering in his truant attentions. “It won’t take but a few minutes to draft a pardon. A temporary one,” he noted.
“And I’d also appreciate it if you could reinstate Kale Eavon to his post in your guard—if he wants it back.”
Durek wrinkled his brows at her; he wasn’t vexed yet, but he was growing so. “Just how many other demands do you have?”
Athaya backed off a bit, aware that she might be asking for too much too soon. “It was only a request. If we’re to be on the same side of this conflict, we may as well start with a clean slate.”
Durek laughed mirthlessly. “I suppose next you’ll be wanting Archbishop Lukin to lift your excommunication?”
“No,” she replied, perhaps more firmly than she intended. “I’ll be a part of his church when they will accept me for what I am. Not before.”
Durek snorted something unintelligible, but did not offer further comment. In the silence that followed, Athaya bowed her head in a gesture of humility. “Is there anything else you would ask of me?”
“Only that you make it clear to your people that they are under
my
command in this, not yours.”
“I’ll tell them.”
He stuck a finger in her face and his ruby signet ring sparkled with sunlight. “That includes you as well.”
“I understand.”
“And…” He winced and turned his back to her. This was clearly a request he did not wish to make of her, but tugged on him more strongly than did his pride. “Cecile…” he began, absently twisting his signet ring as if it had suddenly grown too snug. “She does not answer my letters. But I think she would come home… if
you
asked her to.”
Athaya ventured a step forward. “Perhaps. But we’re at war now, Durek, whether the Sage has formally declared one on us or not. I think that Cecile and the children will be safer where they are—especially Mailen.”
Durek sighed heavily as he stared out across the sea; the sea that led to Reyka and the city where his family had fled. “I suppose so. I just thought… but never mind.” His eyes were burdened with regret. He was too proud to admit it, but he missed his wife and children a great deal. “My daughter… she would be over a year old now.”
Athaya recalled the only time she had seen the child, during a secret visit to Cecile last autumn. “Lillian is a happy child, Durek. And beautiful. She looks much like her mother.”
Durek nodded, seemingly pleased.
“I’d best go tell the council about this,” he said abruptly, shaking off his cloak of melancholy. He drained the rest of his wine in one bracing gulp. “God’s blood, they’ll be furious. I won’t be surprised if the word ‘abdicate’ doesn’t come up at least once.”
“With respect, Durek, some of my people will be just as appalled at what I’ve done. I haven’t actually consulted them about this,” she admitted. “I simply saw no other way.”
“The council will say you bewitched me,” Durek said as he reached the door. It sounded like an accusation; a challenge that he defied her to meet.
Athaya shrugged. “Or they might say we’re finally setting aside our differences to do the best thing for Caithe.”
Durek grunted his disbelief. “Why should they believe that when I wouldn’t have an hour ago?”
Athaya followed him to the door but bade him wait before he opened it. “Always remember that I will aid and advise you, but it is your army to command. You are the king of Caithe, and I have no wish to alter that. I never have.”
He glanced at her curiously, puzzled how she could say such a thing to him, knowing he had sought her downfall, if not her death, for almost two years. But he believed her now—Athaya saw it in his eyes—and she sensed that he was vaguely ashamed of himself for never having done so before.
“Come. The council will be waiting.”
He closed his hand around the door handle. “Just remember, Athaya,” he cautioned her, his gaze suddenly cloaked with shadows. “We may be allies in this, but we are far from being friends.”
Despite the warning, Athaya followed her brother out of the audience chamber feeling that she had won two victories that day. Not only did Caithe now have a fighting chance to survive the Sage’s onslaught, but she felt closer to Durek than she ever had before. That did not say a great deal—they had never much liked one another—but maybe after all this time, each was finally coming to understand the other better.
But if we don’t act quickly,
she realized,
then all the understanding in the world isn’t going to save us.
* * * *
Under the pink and orange skies of twilight, the Sage of Sare sat cross-legged on the crest of a hill a short distance away from the gates of his Nadieran manor. He was an island in a sea of wide-eyed suppliants, all of them gazing on him like children engrossed in a well-told tale.
A six-year-old girl knelt motionless on the grass before him. Her mother hovered close behind as, eyes closed, the Sage burrowed gently in the child’s mind. His hands cupped the girl’s head, almost obscuring the tiny orb in their fleshy mass, and his thumbs pressed down lightly on her thick-lashed eyes, making her slightly dizzy.
“I am sorry, child,” he said at last, drawing his hands away. “The token of God is not with you.”
Crestfallen, the girl’s lower lip began to tremble. Her mother murmured a few words of thanks to the Sage and then led her daughter away; the girl departed bravely, valiantly trying not to cry. In contrast, her mother breathed an indebted sigh to the heavens, unable to comprehend a world in which magic was not the most abhorrent of fates and where her daughter would not grow up to be hunted and absolved.
“Your Grace?”
Couric was picking his way swiftly through the crowd to his master’s side, his creamy yellow tunic standing out like a beacon amid the expanse of tattered brown wool. “A word with you, your Grace?” he asked, with a shade more apprehension than was his habit. “In private?”
A chorus of dissent rose up from the people gathered on the hill. “No, don’t go!” one man begged, reaching out to touch the Sage’s sleeve. “I’ve been waiting for three days to see you!”
“Yes, please stay!” a dozen others cried.
“I have already stayed longer than I ought,” the Sage replied amiably, rising to sandaled feet and shaking the grass from his wine-colored cloak. “But do not fear, I shall return tomorrow.”
The summer air was lightly scented with roses as he and Couric strolled back to the manor. Behind them, the crowd reluctantly dispersed, downcast peasants returning to their makeshift tents.