Free The Awakened Mage by Karen Miller Page B

pother, and offered a perfunctory bow. “How are you this morning?”
    “Well enough,” said Gar. “How is Durm?”
    “Still with us, sir. His will is extraordinary. I think any other man would have succumbed to his injuries by now.”
    Some of the tension eased from Gar’s face. “Not if he had you as his pother. May I see him?”
    “Perhaps later. To be truthful, there was some agitation during the night. We’ve got him quiet again, well dosed with calming herbs. I wouldn’t like to see our good work fly out the window quite so soon.”
    “Agitation? Do you mean—”
    “I’m sorry, Your Highness,” Nix said, and pressed a hand to Gar’s arm. “No sign of awareness, as such. Just an excitation of the nerves. It’s to be expected, with this kind of injury.”
    “I see,” said Gar, and cleared his throat. “Well, you know best, Nix. And you have my complete confidence.”
    “Thank you, sir. I’ll do my utmost to ensure it’s not misplaced.”
    Gar nodded, and banished the last betraying emotion. “So. If I can’t see my Master Magician, can I at least pay a visit to my secretary?”
    “Certainly you may,” said Nix, and smiled his relief. “Indeed, you’ll make the old gentleman’s morning.”
    “He is well?”
    “Well enough to leave us soon, I believe. If you’d care to follow me?”
    As Nix moved towards a nearby corridor, Asher touched Gar’s elbow. “I don’t need to see Darran too, do I? Like as not one look at my face’ll drive the ole crow straight into a relapse and Nix’ll have my guts for garters. Why don’t I just go and—”
    “No,” said Gar. “I’ve got something important to say to both of you, and I want you in the same room when I say it. Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from Nix. Now come along. We don’t want to keep the good pother waiting.”
    Swallowing a groan, Asher fell into step.
    Darran had been removed to a small private chamber a short walk from the reception area. Propped up in bed and looking ridiculous in a pale pink nightgown, when he saw the prince the faint color in his cheeks faded altogether.
    “Oh, sir! Sir!” he cried, struggling to throw back his blankets.
    As Nix withdrew, closing the chamber door behind him, Asher propped himself against the wall and Gar moved to the bedside. “Lie still, old friend. Nix tells me you’re doing well and might even escape confinement later today—provided you do nothing foolish.”
    “I fancy I’ve been foolish enough already,” murmured Darran, sinking back against his pillows. One thin veined hand stole out, fingers brushing against Gar’s black silk sleeve. His expression was beseeching. “Oh, sir. Dear sir. Tell me it isn’t true. Tell me your ruffian friend there has played a cruel trick on me. It would be like him, after all. Tell me anything … except that they’re dead.”
    Gar shook his head. “I wish I could. I’m sorry.”
    Darran burst into gulping, gasping tears. Gar sank to the edge of the bed beside him and opened his arms. Clutching, coughing, Darran continued to weep, his face buried against Gar’s shoulder.
    “I’m sorry—I’m so sorry—”
    Gar patted his back, stroked his hair. “I know, Darran. I know.”
    Skewered with pity, Asher looked away. He had no time for scarecrow Darran but even so … the ole fool’s grief was genuine. Was a knife, opening half-healed wounds.
Red blood and white bone and black flies, crawling… a friend, addled and drooling … a tired old man broken by a mast, alone and abandoned and calling his name …
    Imagination lashed him like a whip. Smarting, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets and set his jaw. He wasn’t going to cry, he wasn’t, he
wasn’t.
Tears were nothing but a waste of good saltwater.
    At last the old man stopped his ragged weeping. Stared into Gar’s tearless face and whispered, “Oh, sir. Sir. What are we going to do?”
    “What we must, Darran. Go on without them.”
    “Without them?” Darran echoed.