The Magician’s Apprentice Read online

  “So, mistress, do you think he’s the sort of man who would admit to being the father of your child, if bribed or blackmailed?”

  Stara laughed ruefully. “As subtle as ever, Vora. Yes, he would,” she said. “Whether at the threat of being discredited, or the temptation of having his work funded, he would do it. Don’t worry. I am not going to fall in love with him.”

  “That is good. Though . . .” The slave frowned.

  “What is it?”

  Vora looked up at Stara and her eyes narrowed in thought. “The reason for you remaining childless may have been removed.”

  Stara felt her heart stop for a moment, then start racing. “Nachira? You heard news? Is she...is she dead?”

  Vora smiled and shook her head. “No.”

  Sighing with relief, Stara sat down on the bed. “Then what?” As a possibility occurred to her she felt a thrill of excitement. “Is she pregnant?”

  “Not as far as I know.” Vora chuckled.

  “Then what?” Stara scowled at the slave. “Stop playing with me! This is serious!”

  Vora paused, her gaze becoming thoughtful and, to Stara’s alarm, wary. Then she sighed. “Nachira has vanished. Either left or been taken from your father’s house.”

  Stara stared at the old woman. “I see. You don’t appear as alarmed by that as you should be.”

  “I am,” Vora assured her.

  “No. You’re not.” Stara rose and moved to stand in front of the slave. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  A hint of fear entered Vora’s eyes. “Do you trust me, mistress?”

  Stara frowned. Do I? She nodded. “Yes, but there are limits, Vora.”

  The slave nodded, then looked down. “There are some things I have learned through... through new connections with your husband’s slaves... that I cannot tell you because if I do, and your mind is read by your husband or your father, people will die. People who do good things. People they’ve helped, like Nachira.” She looked up at Stara. “All I can tell you is that Nachira is safe.”

  Stara searched the woman’s gaze, which did not waver. Do I trust her enough to accept this? she asked herself. I believe she loves and is loyal to Ikaro, and therefore Nachira. I’m not as sure she loves me as much, but it would be reasonable if she didn’t since she does not know me as well. Yet I think she would try to avoid choosing between us. Which might mean keeping information from me.

  I could try reading her mind. But I don’t want to do that to her. And is it worth the risk of endangering Nachira just to find out what happened to her?

  “She had better be safe,” Stara said. “And as soon as you can tell me where she is, I expect you to do so.”

  Vora’s eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them away quickly. “I will. I promise. Thank you, mistress.”

  “Does Ikaro know yet?”

  “That would be impossible. She only disappeared last night. No messenger could have got the news to him so fast, even if he knew where in Kyralia Ikaro was.”

  Stara moved back to the bed and lay down. “Poor Ikaro. I hope he is all right.”

  “I too,” Vora assured her. “I too.”

  CHAPTER 39

  Who would have thought that horses could turn out to be so vital to the survival of the army? Dakon thought.

  Thinking back, he remembered the discussion among the leaders, prior to battle, about whether to leave magicians with the horses or not. All had agreed that they needed as much of their magical strength engaged in fighting the Sachakans as possible. It would be no consolation to have saved their horses, if Kyralia was lost to the Sachakans because of it.

  Leaving the apprentices in the protection of one magician had been a risk, too, Dakon thought. But at least they have a little magic of their own, their wits, and the ability to tell us if they’re being attacked.

  According to the servants who had been tending to the horses, only a handful of Sachakans had attacked them. It took only a few to wreak so much havoc. Fortunately, the Sachakans had set out to steal the mounts, not kill them. They could have slaughtered them quickly, but instead each had taken one horse, then gathered up the reins of as many others as possible, and left.

  Once the servants had realised what the enemy’s intentions were, they had bravely emerged from hiding to untie and cut lead ropes, setting horses free and encouraging them to run away. Then, when the Sachakans had left, the servants had rounded up the scattered mounts as best they could.

  I hope the king rewards them for their courage and quick thinking, Dakon thought. Nobody thought to tell them what to do if they were attacked. They acted all on their own.

  None of the magicians knew the horses had been taken until they tried to retreat. Sabin had restricted the blood gem rings he’d made to the leaders of each team, saying too many minds connected to his was too distracting. He hadn’t given one to Jayan, for the same reason.

  As the army had retreated, the Sachakans had followed. Having to wait until horses were rounded up delayed their escape. Several more Kyralians had died when the magician protecting them ran out of magic. Eventually fewer than ten magicians had been left with the burden of protecting the entire army. The enemy continued to attack and pursued the Kyralian army step for step.

  They were determined to press their advantage. But they should not have had the advantage. Their numbers were smaller, even with the addition of new allies. They should not have had enough opportunities to regain the strength they lost in the last battle.

  But they had. With more slaves to draw strength from than the apprentices and servants the Kyralians relied upon, plus the lives of those killed in villages and towns, the Sachakans had managed to fend off the attack and chase their attackers all the way to Coldbridge, where they broke off the pursuit to hunt down any villagers who hadn’t managed to flee fast enough.

  They lost plenty of fighters, though. We lost nearly a third, but they lost more.

  Dakon looked up at the road stretching ahead, curving and leading his eye towards the jumble of walls and roofs ahead. Imardin. Kyralia’s capital. I can’t believe they’ve driven us this far.

  Abruptly, his horse skittered away from the side of the road. Tightening his grip on the reins, and bracing himself, he glanced back. Nothing. Just crops swaying in the breeze. No strand of curren looking any different from or more dangerous than any other.

  He sighed and shook his head. He’d lost his favourite riding horse at Mandryn; then, while pursuing the invaders, he had changed mounts whenever possible as it had been impossible to care for them properly. Once the army had grown large enough, and they had access to better feed and took time to rest, he’d found himself growing to like the quiet brown gelding he’d ended up with, and had named him Curem for the colour of his coat. It irked him to know Curem was now in the hands of the Sachakans, or had been killed for his strength.

  Tiro, the new horse, had an irritating habit of trying to bite him. And he was ugly. Dakon did not know which of the magicians who had died had owned Tiro. Whoever he’d been, he must have had great patience.

  He looked over at Narvelan. The young magician’s expression was dark and brooding. It was always dark and brooding these days. The light-hearted friend Dakon knew still surfaced now and then, but Narvelan’s sense of humour now had a nasty edge to it. He had been the only magician willing to take Lord Werrin’s horse. Nobody else had wanted to, knowing she would remind them constantly of her former owner’s sacrifice.

  Dakon shivered as he remembered. As the last of the magicians’ power began to fail, Lord Werrin had shielded the army as all struggled to mount and leave. The king had led a horse to him. The magician had murmured a few words to the king, who had turned white and stared at him for a moment. Then Errik’s face had hardened. He’d nodded, grasped his friend’s arm, then turned away, taking the horse with him.

  Werrin had still been shielding as the last of the magicians rode away. Dakon had paused to look back, before Narvelan shouted at him to leave
and they both galloped off.

  Werrin could not have lived much longer than that.

  Later that day, the Elynes had joined the army.

  Ah, the bitterness of bad timing, Dakon thought. If only they’d come a day or two earlier. Or if we’d known they were coming, we might have waited another day before confronting the Sachakans.

  So much tragedy had happened because information had not been gained in time. He would not have left Mandryn if he’d known Takado was going to attack. He’d have evacuated the village. If the king had been certain the Sachakans were going to invade, and when, he’d have been able to prepare for it. Perhaps even prevent it.

  Nobody could predict the future. Not even magicians. And even magicians could only guess at their own strength, or their enemy’s. Dakon had been so sure that, with an army larger than the enemy’s, they would win the battle. He, and many, many others, had been wrong.

  Would they be again? They had no choice but to guess at the strength of both sides again, based on what they knew. More Sachakans had died than Kyralians, despite their efforts to emulate their adversary’s ploy of protecting each other. So though many Kyralians had been lost, their numbers were still larger.

  Once more they had lived to strengthen themselves again. So far they had only one day’s strength gained from their apprentices. The Sachakans had slaves and whoever happened to be unlucky enough to cross their path. Unfortunately there hadn’t been time to evacuate the villages between Coldbridge and Imardin effectively. And then there were the servants of the army, abandoned at Coldbridge. Though they had been given a little more warning to flee than the townspeople, the Sachakans could easily have caught up with them.

  Kyralia had new allies, though: the Elynes.

  Sent by the Elyne king, their leader was a small but sharply intelligent magician named Dem Ayend. The Dem was riding at the front, with the king and Sabin. Looking up, Dakon’s gaze was drawn immediately away from the leaders to the scene ahead. They had crested a low rise approaching the city, and could now see the land surrounding it.

  Which was covered in a great spread of makeshift shelters, and people.

  His heart ached as he realised what it was. The slums around the city had bloated to ten times their former size as the people of the country had arrived, owning little more than what they could carry, and settled where they could find the space. As the army drew closer a stench grew stronger. He’d noticed it earlier, but assumed it was the excrement of the many domestic animals grazing on the slopes of the wide valley, no doubt brought by those fleeing the invaders. Now he recognised it as that particular smell of people living in close quarters with no sanitation. A smell he already associated with the city’s slums, now much worse.

  As the army drew closer, people began to move through the shelters, and a crowd rapidly formed on either side of the road. What do they know? Have they heard we were defeated? Are they expecting a triumphant announcement of victory? Dakon saw that people were already lining the streets within the city.

  Thousands of expectant faces watched as the king led the army through the expanded slums. Voices rose in a roar of sound. Dakon could not make out whether people were cheering or jeering, merely shouting at each other over the din or yelling at the army, but the sound was full of expectation.

  The army made its way to the Market Square, where the king stopped. Lord Sabin gestured for the magicians and apprentices to gather behind him, their backs to the docks. A cart was rolled forward, and the king dismounted onto it. There he stood straight and silent, gazing at the crowd gathering before him with an expression of sober patience. Lord Sabin stepped up beside him.

  “Please be quiet, so the king may speak,” he called out, repeating the request several times.

  Slowly the noise diminished.

  “People of Kyralia,” King Errik began. “Your magicians have been fighting for your freedom. They have been fighting, and they have been dying. Twice they have engaged the enemy in battle; twice they have retreated.”

  Watching the faces in the crowd, Dakon saw dismay and fear. The king paused long enough to let the news sink in, then continued. He smiled.

  “But, as is the way with magic, nothing is simple or straightforward.” Dakon was amused to see people in the crowd nodding as if they knew what the king was talking about. “The Sachakans may have overcome us, but each time at a price. At the first battle many of them died, but all of our magicians lived to fight again. At the second both sides bore losses, but we were closely matched. We lost by the smallest margin. And we survived to fight again.”

  He paused again, scanning the crowd, his expression grim. “The third battle will decide our future.” A hint of a smile returned. “I think we can win it. Why? Because our fate now relies not only on the magicians behind me. It relies on you.”

  Dakon saw people frowning, but mostly in puzzlement. He caught a few sceptical looks. A murmur rose but quickly faded. The king spread his hands wide as if he would wrap his arms around the crowd.

  “It relies on you giving your strength to your magicians. A strength all of you have, no matter how rich or poor. I say ‘giving it’ because I would not demand this from any man or woman. You are not slaves – though if the Sachakans have their way you soon will be. I would rather die than lower myself or my people to the barbarity of their ways.”

  He straightened his shoulders. “But if you choose to give your strength to your magicians, it will not just be magical strength we use to defeat the Sachakans. It will be the strength of unity. Of trust and respect for what we can all do together, magician and non-magician, rich and poor, servant and master. The strength of freedom over slavery.” His voice rose. “You will prove that one does not have to be a magician to have the power and influence to defeat our enemies.”

  Hearing the passion in the king’s voice, Dakon felt a thrill run through him. He searched the faces of the people again. Many were gazing at the king in hope and awe. As he lifted his arms and spread out his hands again in appeal, voices rang out in agreement.

  “What do the people of Kyralia say?” the king shouted. “Will you help us?”

  The response was a mix of affirmation and cheering. “Will you help yourselves?”

  Another cheer, louder, roared out.

  “Then come and give your strength to those charged with the duty of protecting you.”

  The crowd surged forward. Dakon saw Sabin’s smile turn to a look of alarm. A few strides from the cart the wave of people crashed into an invisible barrier. But they didn’t appear to mind. Arms stretched out, wrists upturned.

  “Yes! Oh, yes!” came a voice beside him. Dakon turned to see Narvelan gazing at the crowd, his eyes bright, almost hungry. He looked at Dakon. “How can we lose now? Even if Takado finds the servants... how could they match what we have here? All these people, begging us to take their power. The king... I never knew he was so good at this.”

  “He probably didn’t either,” Dakon pointed out. “It’s not as if he’s had to do it before.”

  “No,” Narvelan agreed. “But if it’s the result of good training, I want to hire his teacher.”

  Dakon chuckled. Sabin turned to address the magicians, explaining how they were going to organise themselves in order to take power from the crowd. Dakon sobered. They were going to have to work fast, before doubt or impatience dulled the people’s enthusiasm.

  And we have no idea how long we have before the Sachakans arrive to finish us off.

  The idea of taking power from hundreds of ordinary men and women had discomforted Jayan so much at first, that he had to force himself through every step of the somewhat simplified ritual. The volunteers were nervous at first, but once those behind the first man saw how easy it was, and how he shrugged and grinned as he walked off, they relaxed and began chatting among themselves.

  The magicians had spread into a wide line. The crowd hovered, someone stepping forward to face a magician as soon as the previous volunteer moved away. Almost
all those who approached Jayan voiced encouragement, urging him to “give the Sachakans some of their own treatment” or “wipe out the lot of them’.

  He nodded each time, assuring them he’d do everything he could. He also thanked them. Time passed in a seemingly endless stream of support, reassurance, and taking of strength. Simmering beneath the civility was a sense of urgency. A tension that would have had him looking over his shoulder constantly, if he could have seen outside the city.

  The king moved up and down the lines, thanking people and giving encouragement. Jayan saw the families of magicians come to greet them and express their relief that they were alive. He also saw the grief of those who came only to learn that their loved ones had perished. His own father and brother did not appear. He would have been astonished if they had.

  As the day wore on a weariness stole over him, and he stopped worrying or pausing to watch these emotional encounters, and fixed his attention on the task of taking power. Face after face appeared and disappeared. He no longer noticed if the arms stretched towards him in offering were dirty or clean, clothed in rags or decked in fine cloth. But then a particular pair of very thin arms made him pause and look twice at the volunteer before him.

  A boy no more than nine years old stared back at him. Behind the boy, the volunteers had thinned to a few people, so that he could see through them to where a crowd now lingered around the edges of the square, watching and waiting for the final battle to begin. The dim light of dusk shrouded all. The day had passed. What power the people could offer was nearly all taken. He was thirsty. Mikken had brought him food and water earlier, but the apprentice was no longer near.

  Looking at the boy, he shook his head. “You have courage, young one,” he said, smiling. “But we don’t take power from children.”

  The boy’s shoulders drooped. He gave a deep, comical sigh. Then he reached into a pocket and thrust his hand at Jayan.

  What is this? Is he trying to give me money? Or something else? Something dirty... Pushing aside doubts, Jayan opened his palm. The boy dropped something small and dark into it. He smiled.