The Wizard King (51 page)

Nicolas slid off the linen trunk and went to stand beside Jaren, prodding his shoulder. “Shall you tell her the rest or shall I?”

‘Tell me what?”

Jaren poured himself a goblet of the watered wine and leaned back into the pillows next to Athaya. “Nicolas has decided to appoint a High Wizard to the King. Someone to advise him on issues affecting the Lorngeld, just as Hedric did with Osfonin.” His eyes flashed back to Nicolas with a secretive glint of delight. “You see, the Caithan court is in desperate need of such an office now that absolution has been declared a strictly voluntary observance and it’s perfectly legal to teach magic again.”

It was fortunate that Jaren took the goblet from her hand just then, for Athaya surely would have dropped it. Her tongue suddenly went numb, unable to form anything but disjointed noises of disbelief. “It… you…”

Nicolas grinned broadly. “I signed the order myself. I can do that now, you know, what with being regent and all. And considering how close the Sage came to being king and his proclivity for executing priests, the Curia wasn’t of a mood to fight me on it.” He picked up a rolled sheet of parchment from the bedstand and handed it to her—almost reverently, she thought. “I had a copy made for you.”

Athaya took the gilt-edged paper as if it were a dry leaf that would crumble if grasped too hard. She uncurled the paper and skimmed it with speechless awe, her eyes resting at last on Nicolas’s swirling signature—and the seal of Durek’s signet ring—at the bottom of the page.

The future of Caithe was right here between her fingers; everything she had struggled for, done with a few simple lines scribbled in black ink.

Athaya sank back against the pillows. It was done. Finished.

“Thank you, Nicolas.”

“No, Athaya,” he said, his eyes suddenly serious as he took the paper gently from her grasp and set it on the bedstand. “Thank
you.
”

Athaya savored the silence for a moment, none of them inclined to break it, and then looked up toward the canopy, envisioning the myriad tasks to come in the swirls of blue brocade. “Do you know what this means? It means we have schools to build and tutors to train and…” She let out a pleasured groan at the staggering amount of work to be done. “You do need a High Wizard to advise you, but I just can’t imagine when I’d find the time. And I’m not cut out for a council post anyway. You know that.”

Nicolas shifted his weight to his other foot. “As a matter of fact I do; that’s why I didn’t appoint you to it. And you’ll be far too busy—more so than you realize,” he added, mildly evasive.

“Then who—?”

Abruptly, she realized that Jaren had been taking great pains to look inconspicuous. “So I appointed your husband instead,” Nicolas concluded, “who was good enough to accept after a full… oh, fifteen seconds of deep consideration.”

“I didn’t think we’d be living in the forest any longer,” Jaren reasoned, “so I had to find something useful to do around here. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Mind? Of course not! You were Hedric’s secretary for five years; you know all about what a High Wizard is supposed to do. And besides, you tend to think
before
you talk, unlike me. And you have a much higher tolerance for bureaucrats—I’d just end up shouting at the council every other day for wasting time arguing instead of getting things done.”

A twinkle of amusement lit up her brother’s eyes. “Speaking of bureaucrats,” he ventured, “if you’re feeling up to it, there’s someone waiting in the other room who’s quite anxious to see you. A few someones, to be exact.”

Athaya spent a few hasty moments combing the tangles from her hair, and after judging her presentable, Nicolas slipped out to fetch her visitors. The bedchamber soon rang with the merry voices of Ranulf, Mason, Master Tonia, and—to her complete surprise—Overlord Basil.

Tonia was first to bustle to her side, clad in a flowing gown of embroidered silk more sumptuous than anything Athaya had seen her wear before. “Good to see you still all in a piece, my girl. Gilda and Girard wanted to come, but somebody had to stay behind and keep an eye on the camp and this time it damned well wasn’t going to be me.”

Likewise dressed as befitting a king’s court—and nigh unrecognizable because of it—Ranulf and Mason each greeted her with a chaste kiss on the cheek, neither looking the worse for their brief imprisonment in the dungeons. But as Mason was quick to observe, “Sharing a cell with Ranulf was the worst part of it. I never heard a man snore so.”

“It was damp down there an’ it gave me a cold,” Ranulf retorted. “You don’t hear me bellyaching about your habits, now, do ye? Grinding yer teeth all night like they was a pair o’ damned millstones.”

Laughing at the welcome sounds of their good-natured banter, Athaya extended her hand to the overlord, resplendent in a summerweight robe of sapphire blue. “Lord Basil, welcome.” She cast a glance of mock wariness through her lashes. “I’m not in trouble again, am I?”

“Not this time, no,” he said; his lean face wore a smile, but Athaya sensed the sadness lingering just behind it. “When I saw Hedric’s image fade from the register in the Circle Chamber, I knew that he was gone. I came to Delfarham to take his body back to Reyka, knowing it his wish.

“But I came for another reason as well.”

A spell of expectant silence fell over the room. At a subtle signal from Basil, the others drew back a step, their faces settling into reverence. Even Ranulf put on a mask of dignified respect, which only increased Athaya’s suspicions. The knowing gleam in Nicolas’ eyes, however, proved that whatever was happening, it was nothing too sinister.

Overlord Basil clasped his hands together, priestlike. “Athaya Theia Chandice Trelane, Princess of Caithe,” he began, ignoring the arch of her eyebrows at being hailed so ceremoniously, “you have done our people great service in Caithe, and in so doing, have been a worthy servant to He who bestowed your gifts upon you. In light of your efforts, your talent, and your veneration of our ways, it is my pleasure to inform your name has been entered into nomination to serve on the Circle of Masters, to take the place left vacant by Master Hedric in his passing, may God shelter his soul in peace.”

If anyone but Overlord Basil had delivered the words, Athaya might have thought herself the victim of a peculiar sort of joke. But the glow of pride in the eyes of family and friends was not feigned, and she looked from one to the other and back again in wordless shock, unable to fathom what she had heard.

“Who… me?”

In spite of the formality of the occasion, Basil expelled a merry chuckle; it was the first time she had ever heard him so utterly amused. “He told me you would say that very thing. We spoke of this months ago, Hedric and I.” The light on Basil’s face dimmed slightly. “When he left Ath Luaine last spring, I do not think he expected to return.”

Then Basil extracted a plain silver ring from his robe and extended it to her, awaiting her answer.

“You’d best accept,” Tonia advised her with mock gravity. “No one’s ever turned it down before, and the Circle has been nominating candidates through eighty-nine overlords.”

“And I’m painfully aware of each and every one of them,” Athaya replied, as the Succession of Circles came unbidden into her brain.
Credony, lord of the first Circle, twenty-six years; Sidra, lord of the second…

She looked to Overlord Basil with all the dignity she could gather, considering she was lying in bed clad only in a linen dressing gown. “I’ll be honored to accept, my Lord. And I’ll try to be a worthy successor to him.”

As Basil nodded his satisfaction at her answer, Jaren came forward to brush her lips with a kiss. “Just keep doing as you have been,” he whispered softly, “and you’ll be the best there ever was.”

Basil slipped the ring onto her finger to conclude the formalities. Afterward, Athaya sank into the pillows and laughed. “Rhodri would die all over again if he knew about this,” she remarked to Jaren, admiring the play of light across the simple band of silver on her hand. “Being on the Circle was all he ever wanted.” Then she glanced sidelong to Basil. “And I don’t imagine the idea would have sat too well with you either, if you’d known this would happen when we first met.”

“I probably would have resigned in disgust,” Basil admitted. “But now I can’t imagine anyone more capable of filling Hedric’s place.”

“Savor that, my dear,” Tonia broke in. “It’s the only compliment from this old mule that you’ll ever get.”

As Nicolas passed out congratulatory glasses of wine, Mason came forward and bestowed his own good wishes on her future. “I imagine we’ll be reading your works in a future
Book of Sages
,” he said, a kindly gleam of envy in his eye. “I shall have all the students of my College study your essays diligently.”

“My—” Athaya chuckled dryly. “I’d guess I’d better write some, then, hadn’t I?” Despite Jaren’s lengthy entry about the Challenge, the journal at her bedside was still painfully thin, waiting for her wisdom—if she could devise any—to grace its empty pages.

“Master Athaya,” Nicolas said, trying out the phrase on his tongue as if sampling a new vintage of wine. “Sounds a bit pompous to me.”

‘Then you’d better hope she doesn’t become overlord one day,” Ranulf remarked. “Aye, there’s a pompous title for ye. No offense, o’ course,” he added to Basil.

The overlord pursed his lips, silently debating whether to reproach him or not, and decided to forgo it in light of the happy occasion. “We can take care of the details later,” he told Athaya. “Your formal investiture and so forth. The ceremony will be held in the Circle Chamber, preferably before the year’s end—though I don’t imagine getting there at any time of year will be a problem for a wizard so adept at translocation.”

“I suppose this means you’ll have to tell me the rest of the Circle spells,” she said lightly.

Basil replied with an eloquently martyred sigh.

Drowsy from both the watered wine and her recent illness, Athaya soon began to yawn noticeably. Jaren quietly suggested to the others that she be left alone to rest.

“Well, I’d best go make some edicts or command somebody to do something,” Nicolas said as he set his wineglass aside and moved toward the door. “People will think I’m not doing my job.”

“Mailen doesn’t come of age for what… ten years?” Athaya mused, battling to suppress another yawn. “I’m not sure Caithe is ready for a decade of government under the regency of Prince Nicolas.”

Nicolas tossed a smirk over his shoulder. “If nothing else, I’ll see to it that we have plenty of good parties.” Then, more seriously, he added, “The council is urging Durek’s funeral to take place as soon as possible, Athaya. They’re nervous at the delay—as if somehow all those dead Sarian wizards are going to rise up and start fomenting rebellion again. Still, I think they have a point. We need to put a proper end to this; to Durek’s reign… to all of it. If you’re well enough, I’d like to make the arrangements for week’s end.”

“I’ll be there, Nicolas.” It was the last thing she could do on her brother’s behalf; she would attend even if she had to be borne there on an invalid’s litter. “I have to be.”

* * * *

King Durek’s funeral was held on the morning of the equinox marking the passage of summer into fall. Although most of Delfarham was crowded into the cathedral, the congregation kept eerily silent—a striking change from the jubilant atmosphere of the Sage’s aborted coronation. The fragrance of roses lining the galleries was diminished by the tang of smoke still lingering from last months’ debacle, and even the slender white tapers adorning the altar seemed to glow less radiantly out of respect for the dead.

Athaya felt oddly detached from the world that morning, as if watching the events through a hazy distance of a vision sphere. She felt it was some other woman that walked down the aisle on her husband’s arm; some other woman that was honored with solemn bows by the citizens of Caithe, many of whom had doubtless cried out for her death but a year ago.
A pleasing change
, Athaya thought as she watched herself incline her head in acknowledgment of another proffered bow; secretly, however, she knew that some rebellious part of her would miss being an outlaw and renegade.

Another pleasing change—and one she could accept without any reservation—was that after almost two centuries, Saint Adriel’s Cathedral was Saint Adriel’s no more. During her month-long slumber, Nicolas had ordered the great church rechristened. The Cathedral of the Innocents.
Yes, most suitable,
she thought as her gaze swept up the massive limestone pillars toward the great rose window in the east. A fitting memorial by which to remember all those thousands upon thousands of Lorngeld led to the slaughter out of the senseless fear their gifts inspired.

The choir opened the service with a doleful hymn of invocation that wished the dead a just and merciful hearing in the court of God. Athaya was tucked comfortably in the royal box between Jaren and Nicolas; to Jaren’s right were Lord Basil, Master Tonia, Mason, and Ranulf and Drianna—the latter pair sitting with hands clasped, Athaya noted, while taking great pains to avoid it being noticed—and to Nicolas’ left were Dagara and her brother Mosel, Feigin of Reyka, Cecile, and the two youngest Trelanes. At just over a year old, Princess Lillian dozed through much of the gloomy affair, but at four, Prince Mailen was old enough to realize that this would be the last he ever saw of his father; he whimpered pitiably throughout the service despite Cecile’s gentle murmurs that he was king now and should try his best to be brave for his subjects.

The bishop who delivered Durek’s eulogy was unknown to Athaya—and to most of Delfarham. Nicolas and the Curia had not yet had time to agree on who was to be Lukin’s successor, so an unknown priest from a remote eastern shire was granted the honor. He had also been granted the honor or revoking Athaya’s decree of excommunication, thus restoring privileges she had not truly missed, but was nonetheless glad to have back again.
Perhaps now that all of us are welcome here,
she thought,
this will be more a church of God and less a one of those who fancy themselves His mouthpieces.