The Wizard King (37 page)

Looking acutely uncomfortable, Tullis departed, murmuring absurd wishes for her pleasant stay in Sare.

Blessedly alone, Athaya went to Drianna’s bed and threw herself across the quilts, exhausted and sickened to the point of tears. She wanted nothing more than to drift off to a dreamless sleep and seek refuge where the Sage and his lunatic plans could not reach her. The evening had become a horrible reprise of that night in the dungeon, with Tyler’s death warrant suspended in Rhodri’s hand. But this time, it was not just one man’s fate in the balance; this time it was all of Caithe. Her actions would set the course of history—and again determine whether those she loved would live or die.

Rhodri had wanted her power, but Brandegarth wanted her soul. And unless she could think of something quickly, the chances were all too good that he would get it.

“Make your choice,” Couric droned, standing in silver-edged black livery at the Sage’s left hand. The man’s tone was flat and dull; everyone in the Hall, including the Sage himself, had lost count of how many times he had delivered the same perfunctory command that afternoon. Within days of the initial assault, the Sage’s rule in Delfarham was undisputed, and the last of the enemy’s forces had been rounded up and brought to meet his justice.

“And think on your answer more carefully than did he before you,” the Sage advised his bedraggled captive. As if already comfortably ensconced as king of Caithe, the Sage reclined upon Durek’s throne in the Great Hall, glaring unforgivingly at the prisoner before him, this one clad in the bloody remnants of a crimson guardsman’s uniform. “You do not bear the seed of power. I have no need for your life unless you swear it to my service.”

The prisoner’s eyes darted to his right, where Preceptor Mobarec’s half-naked body dangled from the rafters, his face grotesquely twisted with terrible awe at the extent of agony an old man could be made to feel in the final seconds before death. And if the sight of a hanged priest was not gruesome enough, anyone still uncertain whether to swear loyalty to the Sage only had to look upon the preceptor’s slashed belly, his innards snaking down to the flagstone floor in grisly parody of an umbilical cord, to know that the Sage delivered on his threats.

Paling noticeably, the prisoner closed his eyes and swallowed. “I… all right. I’ll swear.”

“Damn you to hell, James!” an enraged voice shouted from the antechamber. “You’re sworn to the king, not to that bloody usurper!” The Hall echoed with the loud smack of a mailed glove scraping against flesh; the man did not object again.

“Say it all,” Couric prompted.

The prisoner was visibly shaken by his comrade’s curse, but managed to get the treacherous words out. “I p-pledge to you my life and limb, and promise to use both in your defense and service for all of the rest of my days.”

Couric snatched his hand and stabbed his index finger with a needle, then squeezed a fat drop of blood into a thimble of ink. “Sign here,” he instructed; he handed the man a fresh quill and shoved him toward an open book at the far end of the trestle table. “Or make a crossmark if you can’t write.”

Trembling, as if readying to commit his soul to the Devil himself, the prisoner stumbled forward and scratched his name in the Sage’s book with the blood-tainted ink. A bluish glow followed his hand as he wrote, fading into the page to bind his oath more securely than ink and words could ever do.

“You are a wiser man than our esteemed preceptor,” the Sage remarked mildly, his eyes flicking briefly to the grisly display at his left. “Not that I would have accepted his pledge anyway—though he certainly seemed more than happy to offer it. No, I will not suffer those to live who spend their days hunting wizards in the name of God. But to you,” he went on, “I will pledge my steadfast protection for as long as I shall live in governance.” The ritual response completed, he curtly signaled his guardsmen to usher the man out. “But do not think to betray me,” the Sage added in warning. “Your blooded mark binds your very life to me. Did I wish it, I could make you pray you had opted for death when you had the chance.”

Before the next pair of prisoners were brought forward, the Sage called for refreshment to salve his throat. The thick stone walls offered some relief from the sweltering heat of late July, but several wizards were needed to cast gentle windspells and keep the air from growing too stagnant and oppressive. The vaulted ceiling was peppered with witchlights, lighting the chamber without adding heat. Delicate strains of a flute flowed softly from a porcelain jar at the edge of the dais to soothe the attendants—an incongruous touch of delicacy amid the somber proceedings.

A young woman set a glass of wine at his right hand, her slender hand hesitating only slightly before releasing the cup, as if considering whether to dash the contents in his face instead. “Thank you, Drianna dear,” he said, ignoring the glowing hatred in her eyes. He had fancied that perhaps the girl had drowned herself in the sea after he cast her aside, heartbroken and despondent. It had angered him to find her thriving among his enemies—he never let her know how much—but it amused him to spare her life, letting her live so that she could spend the rest of her days in servitude to him, drinking deep from the bitter cup of degradation.

“Do wipe that puckered scowl off your pretty face, Drianna,” he teased her, gently pinching her cheek. “God’s blood, you look as sour as the queen dowager. Take care, or I shall send you off to Saint Gillian’s to join her.”

“Please do,” she replied bitterly. “I’d far rather be shut away with a flock of dreary old nuns than suffer here at your side.” Her gaze drifted unbidden to the preceptor’s mutilated body and, shuddering, she looked away. “You’re a cruel and loathsome man, Brandegarth, and you don’t deserve to be Sage at all, much less king of Caithe. I hope Athaya kills you,” she added, grieved as well as angered by what he had become, “and I hope she takes her time over it.”

“Ah, but Athaya is not here,” he observed. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “And if you value your mistress’ welfare, Drianna, you will not insult me again.”

Biting back words of rage, Drianna crept back to the kitchens—flashing a vicious glare at Couric on her way—knowing she had little choice but to endure her abasement.

“Bring forth the next prisoner,” Couric called.

The Sage began to indulge himself in a lethargic yawn—the day grew long and the Hall damnably stuffy—but curtailed it as the next pair of captives were brought forth. At last things were getting interesting…

“Ah, the elusive Dom DePere,” he said, shaking off some of his heat-induced languor. “You evaded me in Kilfarnan, but you were not so fortunate here, I see.”

Bloodied, bruised, and shackled by glowing blue cords pulsing at his wrists, Mason nonetheless managed to face the Sage with cool dignity. “What have you done with the king? And where is Princess Athaya?”

“Haven’t you heard? His Majesty fled Delfarham days ago with his tail tightly tucked between his legs. An abdication in deed, if not in words. And his sister is well cared for. That is all you need know.”

The Sage shifted his gaze to the second man; likewise shackled, he was a mess of soiled bandages, greasy hair, and jagged red scars. “Ranulf, old friend, we meet again. And again you find yourself my captive.” His eyes clouded over; for the first time that day he was genuinely angry. “I should kill you right now for what you did to Connor. He was no wizard, but he was a loyal man and served me well.”

“He should have known better to turn his back on a man with a crossbow in his hand… even if his tunic
was
on fire.” Ranulf returned the Sage’s menacing gaze with equal fervor. “Just call it revenge for what you did to Prince Nicolas.”

“I still hold your precious prince, my friend. Take care, or I will do far worse than tangle his simple mind with spells.” He leaned back, studying the two men before him. “You are both worthy opponents and talented wizards; I would rather see you join me than die from stubbornness.”

“Of the two alternatives,” Mason replied evenly, “only death has any honor in it.”

The Sage scowled at him. “Yes, I should have expected to hear such pious drivel from the mouth of a Reykan scholar. But what about you, Ranulf? Mercenaries spend their lives selling their souls for one thing or another; why not hire yourself out to the clear winner of this game? I could use a man like you. Your politics and theology may be wanting of some adjustment, but you do know how to fight.”

Ranulf merely snorted at him. “Even mercenaries have standards.”

“If you join me, I might be persuaded to spare your friend the dom as well. As it is, his future looks none too promising.”

After a swift glare from Mason warning him not to agree, Ranulf shook his head. Sighing resignedly, the Sage motioned his guardsmen to take the captives away. “Think on my offer during your stay in my dungeons,” he called after Ranulf. “I will ask you again once I have been crowned king; if you still refuse, only then will I be forced to kill you both. Mind you, it is a far more generous offer than most have received today.”

Once they were gone, Couric quickly presented the next pair of prisoners; the day grew long and there were many lives yet remaining to be judged. “Kale Eavon and Avery Parr, your Grace.”

The Sage raked his gaze over the two men, searching for signs of worth. “I will not even ask whether you will swear to me,” he remarked to Kale, “because I know you will not. Still, I am told that you have done Athaya great service and that she values you for it. Because of that, I will permit you to live so that you may continue to serve her when she returns. I will make of your life a gift to her.”

Stone-faced, Kale neither thanked nor denounced him, but the Sage did not neglect to notice the spark of relief that glimmered behind the man’s gray eyes; at least Athaya would return.

“And you are his Majesty’s Captain of the Guard, eh?” the Sage asked, turning a derisive smile to Parr. The captain was badly out of uniform, his body barely covered by the bloody shreds of a crimson tunic. “So it is you I must thank for allowing me such unimpeded entry into this castle.”

The captain spat on the rush-covered floor, promptly earning him a ringing blow to the head courtesy of his jailers. “Devil take you
… all
of you! I don’t care what you do to me. I’ll rot in hell before I’ll bow down to one of your kind!”

The Sage mocked him with an indulgent smile, as if listening to the tirade of a child whose favorite toy had been taken away. “Then I shall grant you that which you so fervently desire.”

The Sage pointed lazily toward the rafters. Two uniformed men hustled their captive to the left side of the Hall, where another noose had been readied, waiting for the next man who dared defy the Sage’s commands. Parr said nothing as the rope was secured around his neck, though he sweated profusely and did everything he could to avoid looking at the dead man suspended beside him.

“On your orders, your Grace,” one of the guardsmen said with a bow. The hands of four men clasped the rope tightly, ready to haul the prisoner off his feet.

The Sage did not signal right away. “No. No, wait—”

He paused, staring through and behind Parr’s defiant eyes for a full minute. Then he gripped his sides and laughed as if he’d just heard the finest jest of his life. “Our Lord has a sense of humor, I see.” He smiled knowingly at his bewildered captive. “You have no idea, do you? Tell me, how old are you?”

Parr stared at him blankly, failing to see what his age had to do with his imminent death. “What? I don’t—”

“You do
know
, don’t you?” the Sage asked dryly.

“Of course I do. I… I’m twenty-four.”

The Sage’s smile grew broader than ever. “Late. Late, but not unheard of.”

Captain Parr’s face turned the color of onions as he realized what the Sage was implying. He choked on his next breath, as if already sent aloft by the hangmen.

“Ah, you catch on slowly, but you do catch on. It won’t be long, sir—not by the swollen size of your seed. In time, you will be worthy to serve me. This one has the power,” he told Couric. “Keep him close confined until his
mekahn
begins. We will then see how badly he wishes to die.”

“Liar!” the captain cried, struggling like a hawk in a net as his captors fought to remove the noose from his neck. “Filthy, stinking liar! I don’t have the curse, damn you… I don’t!”

The Sage eyed him steadily. “Then answer me this, Captain: Why is your heart still beating and not lying cold upon the floor like the preceptor’s bowels? It is only because God has made us brethren that I suffer you to live. Only His gift has saved you. Tell me,” he went on; his voice dropped low, ominous as distant thunder, “when your power comes upon you, fouling your mind with madness, will you give yourself over to the glory of it or beg for absolution like a kitten mewling for milk, covering your cowardice with false valor? Death is the easier choice, my friend; you know what death will bring you. But magic is an enigma—a divine riddle for each gifted man to solve in his own way. It is the ultimate Challenge! Why cannot you Caithans
see
that? Why do you all persist in forfeiting the contest before it has even begun?”

“No, no… He would not
do
this to me!” Parr was not listening; he continued to shriek his torment as he was dragged ungracefully from the Hall, as if the Sage had just condemned him to die rather than to live. Behind him, Kale’s expression was artfully ambiguous.

The Sage did not signal the next pair of captives to be brought forth just yet. “Have we received a reply from Archbishop Lukin yet?” he murmured to Couric.

“No, your Grace, but I’m certain it will come. He has no choice but to submit to you.”

The Sage nodded, languidly waving for the procession to continue. It was one of the more onerous duties of a ruler, but there were many more prisoners to pass judgment on before the day was out and he wished them all to look upon him and know who held true dominion over Caithe.

* * * *

Jaren and Durek reached the forest camp on the first day of August, exhausted, hungry, and travel-stained, looking nothing remotely like either a duke’s son or a king. To make matters worse, it had rained sporadically for most of the day, leaving them damp as well as weary as they collapsed in bedraggled heaps before the campfire near the bell tower.