Magician by K.L. Noone

Chapter 16

The rain tapered off. The sun emerged, brilliant ebullient orange over the peaks and valleys of the Crags. Light tumbled all over the pastures and hills and herds of bounding goats. Gareth hovered, but in a considerate way: trusting Lorre to be truthful about recovery, but never far away, either. Just in case.

Lorre did not mind. Gareth wanted him, and wanted to be with him, and cared for him: that was a new sensation, one that he did not recall much throughout his long life. Gareth knew who he was and what he’d done, and chose him, plainly and readily, without doubt.

They went up into the hills and out to the farms, to some of the grazing grounds and frost-touched reaches. Lorre sat down among bare wounds of earth and gradually coaxed life back up: reminding it of what it could be, drawing sunlight down through his body and out into the soil and grass and clover.

The goats were pleased. Gareth was pleased as well, though he made sure Lorre was bundled up in layers of plaid over a coat and a borrowed knit sweater. He eyed Lorre’s bare feet and fingers with the expression of a prince heroically saying nothing about a magician’s preferred working habits but plotting cozy fires and foot-baths, back home.

They came down out of the hills under lazy slanting sunshine. As they made their way back through the village, reentering the relieved bustle of chatter and trade, Lorre tipped his face up to the sun for a moment, closing his eyes.

He opened them to find Gareth looking at him, smiling, though with a quirk to those expressive eyebrows. Lorre said, “Enjoying the view?”

“Yes. But…” Gareth’s fingers found his, interweaving. “You do like being warm. And tropical beaches. Would you want to—”

Lorre held up a hand.

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, not wrong…our Grand Sorceress Liliana will be arriving momentarily. They really have made good time.”

“Momentarily—you mean now?”

“I mean now. Sorry. Distracted, earlier. But we knew they were coming—”

They had. King Ardan and Queen Mother Agatha had been preparing. The Hall wasn’t as ornate and precise as anything down in Averene, but it had thick-walled guest chambers with luxurious beds, and the silver had been polished, and menus had been planned. Dan had been firm about not demanding anything extraordinary from their cook—the Hall staff had looked very dismayed about the sudden descent of Averenish nobility, their household, personal guard, and one Grand Sorceress—and had announced that everyone would be satisfied with good traditional Northern fare, as usual. He’d also done some baking. Pies and cakes and breads had appeared in astonishing quantities. Lorre and Gareth had agreed privately that this was both a gesture of personal goodwill and an expression of Dan’s nerves.

Noise happened. Clamor. Hooves on the road. Lorre inquired, “Shall we go and intercept them?” and waved at the middle distance, an offer. Behind them, up at the Hall, the news would be arriving as well.

“They can come to us,” Gareth said. “They invited themselves.” His tone said more: Lorre belonged here, and they would stand at the steps of the Great Hall together, with the King, a proclamation.

“If that’s what you want,” Lorre surrendered, and let Gareth tug them in the direction of the low rising hill and the carved doors with their Northern folklore. Some other motion, a presaging of ice, flickered along one strand of his perception; he winced at the timing, reminded himself he could juggle multiple challenges with flair, and followed his prince.

Standing on the low steps, they waited. The afternoon was cool and hot, sunkissed but full of bracing wind. Dan had found and put on a crown, for once: a rustic circle of unfussy worked gold that almost disappeared against his strawberry-gilt hair. Agatha, regal in luminous grey, straightened her shoulders: a mother proud of her sons and her people and her home.

Lorre, still barefoot, wiggled toes against stone, and let them blur into stone, for a second. The flat rock welcomed presence, weight, interaction.

Gareth put an arm around him. Lorre stopped poking toes into rock, and tried not to fidget.

The Grand Sorceress and the Prince of Averene rode into King’s Gate, up the hill.

They came slowly, looking around, intrigued. From the tilt of Lily’s head, the analyzing sweep of Will’s gaze, Lorre guessed they’d been expecting someplace poorer, more wild, more ravaged, perhaps. Lots of bandit deprivations. Or lots of magical interference from the former Grand Sorcerer.

He thought, abruptly, that this was a dreadful idea: he shouldn’t be here, should melt into wind or a boulder or an owl or a scuttling emerald-scaled lizard. Gareth and Dan could deal with people and politics; Lorre himself would say or do the wrong thing, unconsciously arrogant or careless or not human enough, and then there’d be a catastrophe, and the Marches would pay the price…

Gareth poked him. “Don’t you dare turn into a hummingbird.”

“I won’t,” Lorre said.

The Grand Sorceress Liliana shone like the sun, approaching. She always had, even when she hadn’t known it: when she’d been younger and scared and shy, unaware of the extent of her power. These days she did less hiding behind glamour, but the world expected a Sorceress to dazzle, and Lily knew about impressions and expectations. She’d braided her hair for travel, and it swung in coils of looped tiger’s-eye and tree-bark and topaz; she’d dressed for ease of motion, but in expensive flowing fabric, with lace and brocade trim in the sunshine colors that suited her. Beside her Prince William was a cool haughty shadow, dark hair and upright posture and clever amber eyes; but he smiled at his petite powerful wife, and rode close beside her.

They had a few guards following behind—several lengths behind, evaluating Lorre’s presence and possible danger—but not many, and not overtly hostile. At least that reflected a certain amount of common sense, Lorre thought.

He personally wouldn’t’ve brought any guards. Too human. Useless.

They dismounted at the bottom of the steps, and came up. Will, like several of the Averenish guards, looked at Lorre as if expecting a dragon, though in Will’s case the reaction was less fear and more the point of a sword.

Most of King’s Gate, having trailed the newcomers in with fascination, began to glare and mutter disapprovingly. Lorre recognized Aunt Ellie and little Elsie in the crowd, and Rebecca the apothecary, and Miss Kaya, and flame-haired Rowan, who’d greeted them that first day, along with several other people who’d offered him tea, who’d watched him accompany Gareth to fix a widow’s fence and a village’s frost-burned pastures.

Dan took a step forward. “Welcome to the Marches, Grand Sorceress Liliana. Prince William.”

Will inclined his head, a prince greeting a king. “Thank you. I wish we’d come sooner; we should have made the journey, for your coronation.”

That sentence, like many of Will’s sentences, carried multiple meanings. If the crown of Averene, the richest of the Middle Lands, had attended Dan’s ascension, perhaps no inheritance problems would have occurred; if the Grand Sorceress had come to pay a visit then, Lorre’s help might not have been needed to deal with an outbreak of magic, and they would not be here now.

Lily’s gaze rested on Lorre, speculative. He knew what she saw: the same familiar face, the same apparent bare-footed disregard for protocol, another insinuation of himself into another court. But she also took in the horribly unfashionable bundle of Gareth’s plaid around his shoulders and his borrowed handmade sweater, and Gareth’s arm around him, and the fact that he was letting it be there.

Her eyes narrowed.

Dan said calmly, “Well, that’s all right; we’re awfully far north and awfully small, and, you know, that ceremony’s mainly for all the people of the Marches to show up and tell me what to do on their behalf, though you’d’ve been welcome, of course.”

Lorre was tempted to applaud, at that.

Will looked somewhat taken aback, and then offered, more genuine this time, “I would have liked to have come for your father’s memorial. I only met him once, at Henry’s coronation, but he seemed like a good man. He was kind, when Henry was so nervous about formal protocol and greeting everyone.”

“He would’ve been.” Dan’s eyes warmed at that; and let the coronation inequality slide. “He always was. Thank you. Would you like to come in? I’ve made a honey-pumpkin bread and a lot of cinnamon-blackberry scones. And there’s tea, and smoked salmon in tiny sandwich form, and a really lovely sort of trifle our cook does with raspberries and custard.”

Will did a little head-tilt at him. “You do your own castle baking?”

Lily said, to Lorre, “You’re being quiet.” And her voice held every true accusation she could’ve thrown at him: every word about finding places of power, interfering with kings and princes, changing the directions of countries and people on a whim.

He’d changed her life, once. Irrevocably. A whirlwind who’d told her she could be a magician, that she was special, that he wanted her. He had, then. She’d been a wonder without knowing it, fully human but the most gifted magician he’d ever met aside from himself, and he’d been very lonely. He hadn’t been in love, but he’d thought he could try.

He wondered whether she could ever forgive him, or whether she couldn’t. Whether she ever looked back at the life of an impoverished farmer’s daughter, compared to the farflung possibilities and glimmering heights of magic in the richest capital of the Middle Lands, and her role in reopening and reordering the school he’d abandoned, and her joy with her king’s brother, who stood at her side now.

He said, “It’s not my kingdom to welcome you into.”

“That,” Lily said, “doesn’t sound like you.”

“Hello,” Gareth said to her, pleasantly. His arm remained around Lorre’s shoulders. “I’m Prince Gareth. You already know Lorre. Welcome to the Marches.”

“Lorre,” Lily snapped, losing patience in the face of unshakeable friendliness, “did you seduce a prince? Why this prince? Why am I feeling weather-magic? What, in the name of everything, are you doing?”

“Now you sound like me,” Lorre said, because he really couldn’t resist. “I can recommend all of Dan’s baking wholeheartedly, by the way.”

Gareth sighed, “Lorre…” and looked at the Grand Sorceress. Lily, shorter and angrier, crossed her arms.

Gareth said, “He didn’t seduce me. He tried not to. If anyone did the seducing, it was me.”

“You would think that,” Lily said.

Gareth glanced around, and found every pair of eyes—familial and royal—on him. “Could we possibly stop discussing his and my sex life as a subject of political negotiation?”

“No,” Will said. “Unfortunately.”

Lorre asked, “You didn’t bring Merlyn—Merry, sorry, I promise I’ll remember—with you, did you?” He was fairly certain not—he’d be able to see or sense her—but he’d had a wistful impulse. He thought Gareth would like her.

“I did not,” Lily said, “bring our eight-year-old daughter into bandit territory, Lorre!”

Dan raised both eyebrows, and murmured, “We also have goats…”

Gareth said, “Daughter?”

A crackle of cold hit Lorre’s guardian net. The wind changed.

He turned a second before Lily did. They both put out a hand the same direction, instinctively.

Everyone who wasn’t a magician followed the movement. Gareth kept a hand on Lorre’s shoulder.

Lily said, “Your weather-mage—Lorre, what have you done?”

“That isn’t me! Or…well, yes. All right. But not how you think—”

An eddy of snow whistled past. The town grew tense, drawing together, recalling recent pain. Frost slid over rooftops and gates.

But the people also trusted him, or at least Gareth; Lorre discovered, watching their faces, that none of them flinched. Anxious glances swung their way; but Gareth and Lorre had told them all that they’d be safe, and they believed it.

So did the land. The earth, the soil, the harvest, the trees. They shivered, and leaned against blue and gold summer protection; but they were in Lorre’s care, and relied upon that.

As the snow faded, five figures stood revealed on mountain ponies. Lorre recognized two of the hungriest-looking men from the bandit troop, layered for warmth in furs and patched leathers; the third was young Hilda’s father, grey-eyed and hollow-faced and wary. The fourth was Gareth’s Uncle Osric, still in scuffed and torn mountain plaid, head raised, but with a sword pointedly directed his way. The fifth was, of course, young Hilda herself: thin and snow-fair, with enormous eyes.

The guardsmen from Averene, used to magic but not to bandits, snapped into defensive mode, raising weapons.

Hilda’s father lifted his bow, though he did not aim.

Lorre shook off Gareth’s hand and ran down the long shallow steps. “No one do anything. Not even you, with the broadsword. I can see you. Don’t.”

“In charge, as usual,” murmured Will from behind him, catching up, “aren’t you?”

“I’m not—” Lorre gave up on any answer; it wouldn’t make a difference. To Dan and Gareth, who’d kept up, he said, “They’re here to talk.”

“We’re here,” said Hilda’s father into the pause, “to speak to you. And to your king. You…” He glanced at his daughter. “You were kind. You helped her. After we brought harm to you.”

“About that,” Lorre said, and came the rest of the way over to them. Everyone else followed, naturally. “You didn’t mean to, did you? Or at least you didn’t want to. He did—” He flicked a hand at Gareth’s uncle. “—and you listened because you were starving and you didn’t know what else to do. But that’s it, isn’t it? You were starving.”

And the man looked surprised. “How—”

“I’m me,” Lorre said. “I know most things. But also you told me, and Hilda did. You’ve been living up in the mountains for years, right? Finding a living, following the grazing grounds for your ponies, occasionally coming down to make off with a goat or two, comfortably enough. But since the cold, everything’s died.”

“Yes,” breathed Hilda. “Yes.” Her eyes rested on Lorre as if seeing hope. “It was my fault.”

Lily, of all people, took a step forward and said, “Oh, no. No, it wasn’t.” She was, Lorre reflected, a mother to the core. “You’re made of magic. That’s not a fault. And we didn’t know you were up here, to help you. I’m sorry I didn’t know.”

Hilda, who had not ever seen the Grand Sorceress before, looked at Lorre. Lorre, not entirely used to being the voice of reason but decently used to being an authority, explained, “Lily runs the school for magicians, down in Averene; she’s much better at training people than I am. She’s also a much nicer person than I am, I promise.”

Hilda swallowed, and nodded, though she looked a bit skeptical. Lorre promised, “Lily can do a much better job helping you with your own wards; I don’t work the same way, so I’ll let her take over,” and then looked around for the King of the Mountain Marches. “Gareth, Dan, this is—sorry, what was your name?”

“Gunnar,” offered Hilda’s father, bemusedly.

“Thank you. King Ardan, Prince Gareth, this is Gunnar, who could use your help. And who, I think, has something to offer you.”

Gunnar met Dan’s eyes. “He told us he could help us. He told us that no one would be hurt, only your land. He told us you would listen to him, if we made you afraid.” The bandit holding the sword inched it closer to Osric.

Dan, much like Gareth had, looked at his uncle wearily and said, “You could have come home.”

Osric looked at him, and at the dark sarcastic glitter of the heir to Averene’s throne, and at the Grand Sorceress, and at Lorre, and at Gareth, who’d gone to find a magician and turned the Mountain Marches into a place of legend.

He dismounted, slowly. He did not reach for a weapon. The bandit with the large sword looked somewhat disappointed.

He came up to Dan, and stopped. And then, still slowly, knelt.

Dan said, “I’m not sure I’m asking you for that.”

Osric said, “You could kill me. I betrayed you. And I was wrong.”

“You did, and you were.” Dan folded his arms, sighed, eyed his uncle in the dirt. “And people died. Our people.”

“I know what I did.”

“You also thought you were protecting the Marches from dangerously unprepared boys as the next king and heir.” Dan sighed again. “You might as well get up.”

His uncle stared at him.

“Really,” Dan said, and made a little come on gesture at him. “I mean it.”

“You’re not going to—”

“Why would I? You do have valuable knowledge about fighting and tactics that we don’t have, you’re family, and you are going to personally work to make amends to every single person you’ve harmed, by doing whatever they ask of you.” Dan paused. “Also, I think you might’ve noticed, we have a magician. Or two.”

Osric’s gaze darted to Lorre. Lorre, not above pettiness—the man had insulted Gareth—found a prickle-burr or two on a nearby bush, and twirled them mid-air, and also waved hello.

Dan said, “Gareth, Mum, anything you want to add?”

Prince William, watching this display of justice, had a very odd expression. Lorre recognized it: someone far more used to cynicism and ruthless retribution being exposed to Gareth’s family’s unique sense of fairness for the first time.

He murmured, to Will, “You’ll get used to it.”

Gareth stepped up to his brother’s side. “I think you’ve covered it. This isn’t forgiveness, Uncle Osric. You earn that. But…” He glanced at Lorre. “I said once that I didn’t want anyone else hurt. That includes you.”

Osric got up, uncertainly.

Queen Mother Agatha took a step forward and slapped him. Because she was short, she had to reach up to do it; the impact left his cheek pink.

He took it, in silence.

She said, “You make amends, and you do what they say,” to her brother-in-law. “And you can go and ask Angus for his forgiveness.”

That name, that gravestone, did make Osric flinch.

Agatha looked up at him, and exhaled, and added, “And you’re hungry, too; look at you. It’s a good thing Dan’s been baking.” This time her voice held memories the rest of them couldn’t know: years of knowing each other, of Osric’s presence for his brother’s courtship, of winter nights and a man teaching his young nephews to ride and to fish and to whistle, though in Gareth’s case it’d forever be off-key.

“And on that note,” Dan said, “we’ve got some details to sort out—Gunnar, if your people need assistance, we can probably spare some grain and some of our stores, since we’ve had some assistance ourselves lately—and I’d suggest we do that out of the wind, over tea…”

Lily had a hand on Hilda’s shoulder, over clothing, not touching bare skin; she said to Lorre, “That was a neat bit of magic, that sharing of your protections. And I know you know it left you more vulnerable, tying yourself to her. If something went wrong.”

Gareth, at this, stared at him. With emphasis.

“I know,” Lorre said. “I’m a reservoir. Don’t worry.”

“You’re not, actually.” Lily fell into step beside him; Hilda, with two layers of sorcerous shields around her now, was explaining shyly to her father how much warmer she felt. “You’re more of an aqueduct. I know how your magic works, Lorre.”

Lorre waved a hand. “Close enough.”

“You were putting yourself into it all.” She gestured at the village, the trees, the distant pastures. “That’s you, in there. Not taking it from anywhere else, not punishing someone responsible by draining theirs. You wouldn’t’ve done it this way, before.”

“No,” Lorre said. He had Gareth on his other side, hand nudging his, finding his, holding on. “I’m not sure I could have. I mean, yes, I could’ve, but I wouldn’t’ve thought of it, so no, I couldn’t. That kind of sharing of power. Not clinging to it. You know what I mean.”

“Sometimes I do,” Lily said. “You really are different, you know.”

“I’m always different,” Lorre said, amused despite an odd hollowness in his chest. He knew what she’d meant; he knew what he meant in answer to that. He was himself, for better or worse, and he’d always been set apart. “And I’m not too old to turn into something else. Or at least make an effort.”

Gareth said, “I love you, and we’re also going to talk about reservoirs and aqueducts, later.” His grip on Lorre’s hand was firm. The sensation chased away hollowness, and replaced it with certainty, with belonging.

“I like your prince,” Lily observed. “Be nice to him.”

“I’m trying.” Lorre poked a small stray pebble with his bare toes, going up the last step. “I want to be.”

“You are,” Gareth said, “you are,” and pulled him close and kissed him soundly, right there at the doors of the Great Hall, in full view of family and fluffy sheepdogs and assembled King’s Gate villagers. The villagers cheered.

Prince William commented, “For someone who didn’t want us discussing your sex life, you’re certainly making it public,” but he was smiling; and his gaze rested on Lily’s, intimate and amused and fond, for a second.

“I love him,” Gareth said, reemerging. “I’m not hiding that.”

“Hero,” Lorre complained, “always taking a stand,” and matched his steps to Gareth’s, going in. He liked the way their footfalls sounded together.