Karen Miller - The Reluctant Mage

Copyright 2010 by Karen Miller

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Orbit

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First eBook Edition: July 2010

Orbit is an imprint of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Orbit name and logo are trademarks of Little, Brown Book Group Limited.

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

ISBN: 978-0-316-08846-6

Kingmaker, Kingbreaker

The Innocent Mage

The Awakened Mage

The Godspeaker Trilogy

Empress

The Riven Kingdom

Hammer of God

Fishermans Children

The Prodigal Mage

The Reluctant Mage

Rogue Agent

The Accidental Sorcerer

Witches Incorporated

Wizard Squared

Dedicated to

Robert B. Parker

Who lifted crime fiction into the heady realm of

sweet, spare elegance

Kage Baker

One of the most gifted and consistently under-rated

writers in the field of speculative fiction

and

Dick Francis

I read Hot Money so many times the book came

apart in my hands.

If that doesnt denote genius, I dont know

what does.

I cant believe we lost three of my favourite writers in

the space of a few weeks. Thank you, thank you, and

may you all rest in peace.

B ecause he was Doranen, and a Garrick, Arlin refused to avert his gaze.

Of all the ways a man can die, I have to think this is the worst.

Worse even than drowning in the chaos of a whirlpool.

Kneeling on cold, glimlit flagstones, Morgs latest victim trembled and keened as his little life was slowly extinguished.

Arlin shivered. The first time hed seen Morg kill like this, with magic, the victim was Fathers dear friend Sarle Baden, whod wept so hard at Rodyn Garricks empty-coffined funeral hed made himself vomit.

Since Sarle thered been three other killingswell, four, counting this oneall of them as gruesome, and he had to believe there would be many more. As many as it took for Morg to absorb the scattered pieces of himself until he was whole again, and entirely unstoppable.

But Asher sundered him years ago. I wonder why its taken him so long to attempt this rejoining? I wonder how long it will take him to succeed?

He didnt have any answers. He wasnt sure he wanted them.

The morning after Sarle Badens murder Morg had ordered him to kneel. Then, glancing at Fernel Pintte and the idiot Goose Martin and the other captives, bound and gagged, hed smiled.

You are Doranen, Arlin. I would not treat you like these cattle. You are free to ride behind me, unboundprovided, of course, that you behave yourself. Will you?

He wasnt a fool. Swearing obedience, staring into Rafels haughty face, hed seen no hint of the man whose body Morg had stolen. But then, as Morg gestured for him to stand, hed thought he caught a glimpse of something familiar and desperate in the sorcerers dark Olken eyes.

Angry with himself, hed smothered the surge of pity and did not look for Rafel again.

For the next five months Morg led them through the wilderness beyond Barls Mountains, often willy-nilly it seemed, but always edging north, league after league, over fallow fields, through woodland and across sluggish rivers. If there were villages or townships in the lands they travelled, the sorcerer kept well clear of themand the few unbidden souls they encountered on their journey he captured and yoked to Pintte and the rest.

But the bidden souls? The men Morg summoned with mysterious arcane ritual because they carried a small, sundered part of himself?

Those men he killed.

Twice, the possessed had come to them out of the night, haggard and half-mindless, and once the sorcerer had hunted his quarry to ground as though he was a harrier hound and could scent the mans terror. Or perhaps he was simply scenting himself. Like calling to like, evil to evil. Each time Morg sucked his victims dry and moved on, but where hed abandoned Sarle Baden, leaving the aged Doranens broken body behind to rot, he did not abandon Rafel. And with each death, each swallowed morsel of himself, Morg grew stronger and more confident.

At long last, ragged and dirty and exhausted, theyd reached Lost Doranathat almost-mythical land for which his dead father had spent a lifetime pining. And twenty-four days after crossing his ancestral lands almost-extinct magical border they reached Elvado, the city of mages, Doranas cradle of knowledge.

It was a wasteland, smashed to ruins in the great mage war and never rebuilt. Thered been no-one left to rebuild it. Morg said, carelessly, I killed everyone who opposed me, you see. In the end there was no-one left. Hed shrugged. It was better that way. I do my best work alone.

Arlin rode through the haunted silence with his eyes closed.

Unmoved by Elvados profligate destruction, Morg took his captives to an ancient, magically preserved mansion some three leagues distant from the city. My once and future home, he called it. There he set them to airing and cleaning the chambers and corridors, grooming the estates grounds and taming its fields and orchards. Forbidden to use magic, Arlin toiled alongside the other prisoners and made sure to keep his offended feelings hidden.

Nine days later, just after sunrise, another witless soul arrived, answering Morgs summons like a dog obeying its masters shrill whistle.

And now the man was dying.

This one was young, barely escaped from boyhood, with light brown hair and not much chin, peach fuzz on his cheeks and a voice that remained lodged in his throat though by the time Morg was done with him, like all the others hed have screamed it right out.

Arlin felt unwelcome fingers pluck at his sleeve, stirring him from memory and sour contemplations.

Arlin.

The whisperer was Fernel Pintte, who insisted on treating him with a loathsome familiarityand was so afraid of Morg he had no fear to spare for anyone else, which meant there was no way to stop him from being familiar, short of murder.

But murdering Fernel Pintte was out of the question. Morg had a use for him, so Pintte must stay alive.

Arlin.

He snatched his arm free. What?

Fernel Pintte wasnt faring well. After so many months of strenuous captivity he was a loose collection of bones draped in folds of sallow skin. Being Olken, and inferior, even though he was useful he was not treated kindly.

Arlin, Pintte whispered, how much stronger will this new death make the sorcerer?

How should I know? he said, making sure to keep his voice soft. Why dont you ask him?

Fernel Pintte flinched as though hed been struck with a whip. Youre a bastard.