Is This Apocalypse Necessary? Read online

  “Didn’t you hear me?” I burst out. “I just said I wasn’t going to oppose him. Even if I didn’t know perfectly well that any magic I tried against him would blow up in my face, at least I’d recognize the horrible danger—to Theodora and to Antonia, and for that matter to everyone in Yurt, as well as to me. I’m going to stay quietly at home and hope he doesn’t think about me at all.”

  “Yes,” said Joachim as though I had made a different comment altogether. “I understand that you might not want to trust even me with your plans, at least at this early stage.

  Secrecy may be vital, though I rather doubt Elerius has spies here in the cathedral. But I do want you to know that I shall always pray for you and will help you in any other way that I can. All you need do is ask.”

  It was a good thing, I thought as I flew home to Yurt, that I hadn’t told Theodora all of Elerius’s plans. Normally I hated to keep things from her, but this was different. She— and for that matter Antonia—would probably have offered their help too in what could only be a suicidal effort. The thought of Antonia trying to oppose Elerius, armed only with a few transformations spells he had taught her himself, made my blood run cold.

  But it wouldn’t hurt, I thought grumpily as the air cart banked over the castle, to take a look at the ancient wizard’s spells. Then, once it was conclusive that what the Master seemed to think was my only hope was instead completely impossible, the issue would stop nagging at me.

  King Paul met me in the castle courtyard as I carefully set my air cart down outside my chamber doors. “How is your wife?” he asked with what seemed unusual enthusiasm. “It must be delightful to be married—being with the one you love best, acknowledging your love to all.”

  “Theodora is fine, thank you,” I said, wondering what could have caused this sudden interest. He had been a witness, standing next to me at a side altar in the cathedral when Joachim married Theodora and me, but he had never before burst into paeans in praise of matrimony.

  “You wizards probably don’t know what it is to be afraid,” he added in an apparently abrupt change of topic.

  “Actually I have an excellent idea,” I said testily, but he gave no sign that he’d even heard.

  “I’m going to do it, Wizard,” he continued with a rather forced grin. “But I may want you there in case I start to get cold feet.”

  I didn’t have the slightest idea what he was talking about and told him so, just barely keeping full-blown irritation out of my voice. He still didn’t seem to notice.

  “It’s wondering what Mother is going to say about my choice that’s the worst,” he said. It slowly dawned on me through my own concerns that my liege lord was extremely nervous about something.

  And the most likely explanation was that he had finally decided to get married. Ever since Paul had become king of Yurt, over ten years ago, there had been a steady parade of princesses and well-born ladies who just happened to be traveling through our part of the Western Kingdoms and stopped to visit the royal family. The existence of a handsome young king with emerald eyes and an excellent temper was bound to attract attention. Some of the young ladies had stayed a few days, some a few weeks. Paul was friendly to all of them, gave balls in their honor, and waved cheerfully from the battlements as they rode away at last. His mother was equally friendly to all, but her own candidate for new queen of Yurt remained Princess Margareta of Caelrhon. Margareta had been selected as queen of choice when she was not much older than Antonia, and while waiting for Paul to make up his mind she had grown into an elegant and languorous young woman.

  “It’s silly to be this nervous,” said Paul, wiping his hands on his trouser legs.

  I didn’t want to worry about my king’s romantic life on top of everything else, but I reminded myself firmly that it was of primary importance to everybody else in Yurt. And since wizards, even incapable wizards like me, lived longer than anyone else, if I was going to stay holed up here forever it should also be important to me who would give birth to the king I would serve after Paul. “Your mother must have figured out by now that you’re not interested in the Princess Margareta.”

  “It’s not that,” he said, stepping back and forth from one foot to the other. I saw him realize what he was doing and make himself stop. He clenched his fists and looked full at me for the first time. “Wizard, I’m going to marry Gwennie.”

  “Well, I guess that’s wonderful, sire,” I muttered, since some answer seemed called for. Inwardly I was much more stunned than I dared show. It was one thing to think in the abstract about two young people who suited each other very well, another to imagine what the kings of the surrounding kingdoms—and for that matter the masters of the wizards’ school—would say if Gwennie actually became queen of Yurt. “I hope you’ll be very happy together.”

  “She said she’d meet me here,” he said, glancing from side to side. This time of the day my end of the courtyard was generally deserted. “So I’m going to ask her now.”

  “Then I’ll just step into my chambers and—” But he caught my arm. “Keep your window open. I’d really feel better if I knew you were right there.”

  I obediently tied the air cart to a ring outside my door and went inside, where I could look out and watch Paul fidget. Even with the window open I was fairly well screened by climbing roses. I had previously thought myself that he ought to marry Gwennie, but now that it came down to it all the reasons why it would be an incredible social gaffe rushed to my attention. And I could certainly appreciate why he was nervous about telling his mother.

  There was a rapid click of heels, and Gwennie came around the corner. Blonde like the king and exactly the same age, his childhood friend, his trusted assistant in everything to do with the functioning of the castle, Gwennie was the daughter of the castle cook and was castle constable in her own right. “Sorry I’m late, Paul, uh, sire,” she said with a smile, pinning back stray tendrils of hair. “That messenger from Caelrhon brought a whole pile of tradesmen’s bills this morning, and I’m sure some of them can’t be right. For example, you didn’t have a jeweler set a diamond into a ring last week, did you?”

  “Um, well, actually, Gwennie, I did.”

  There was a brief pause. “Gwendolyn.”

  “You did?” She sounded surprised. “In that case, I won’t send the jeweler the rather sharp message I’ve just been composing. But I wish you’d told me.”

  Paul seemed momentarily unable to continue. In many ways he was still the same good-hearted, reckless, perennially cheerful young man he had been when he assumed the throne, so easy-going that it sometimes seemed that the only thing to stir his passion was his stud stables. His mother focused on the need for a royal heir to the kingdom; I kept thinking instead that he ought to become more sober and regal—more like his father, except that his father had already been very old when I knew him. A nagging voice in the back of my mind liked to point out that I hadn’t been any more mature when I was Paul’s age, but I had an answer to that one: I’d been a brand-new graduate from the wizards’ school, whereas Paul was a king.

  “The ring was supposed to be a secret,” he brought out. “A splendid secret.”

  Through my curtain of roses I could see Gwennie stiffen. “Shall I be the first, sire,” she said in a formal and artificial voice, “to wish you and the Princess Margareta joy?”

  “No, no, no,” said Paul quickly. “I’m sorry, Gwennie. I’m going at this altogether wrong.” He took her arm and dropped it again. “But you don’t need to worry about Margareta.”

  She raised one eyebrow quizzically. “Then what do I need to worry about?”

  Paul floundered for a second, then threw himself resolutely onto his knees at her feet. “Gwendolyn,” he said in a high voice that didn’t sound anything like him, “Gwennie, dearest, I want to ask you to be my queen. The ring, this ring,” fumbling it out of his pocket, “is a symbol of the love and harmony we shall share together.” After a moment he added, as if reciting a lesson, “A diamond,
the hardest of all the minerals, stands for the permanence of our bond.” Gwennie seemed unable to speak. Paul rose to his feet and dusted off his knees. “Here, go on, put it on your finger,” he said in his normal voice. Gwennie’s hand closed around the ring but she did not put it on.

  “Glad that’s over!” he continued conversationally. “I’m sure you’re surprised. After all, you’ve doubtless loved me for years, but you believed I thought of you as just the castle constable and my oldest chum.”

  Gwennie started to say something but Paul was still speaking, and she drew back a step without interrupting. Her lips narrowed into a straight line I would have found ominous, but the king wasn’t paying attention.

  “Didn’t you ever wonder why I never married any of the young women who’ve been thrown at me?” He sounded cheerful now, confident of the answer she had not yet given. “I realized a long time ago that none of them could ever be the same comfortable companion you’ve always been. And yet it was obvious I couldn’t very well marry my own cook’s daughter! And I didn’t want to insult you by asking you to be my mistress. So I thought I might be like Father, who didn’t marry anybody until he was so old he should have been a grandfather! In the meantime you and I could still be friends, and by the time we were old maybe no one would care anymore if we did get married.”

  From my window I could see a furious red working its way up Gwennie’s cheeks. Paul didn’t notice, and I had a feeling that my suddenly shouting out to him that he was doing this entirely wrong, and had to stop before he made it even worse, wouldn’t help the situation anyway.

  “So you’re probably wondering why I’m asking you now. Too surprised to say anything?” he added, as though realizing for the first time that she was standing stiff and silent.

  “Well, I’ve decided that Mother has a point, I really do need an heir, and besides I’ve always liked kids myself. So I concluded it probably wasn’t a good idea to wait too long if I was going to marry you eventually anyway. Then I had an idea: I can ennoble you! The royal chancellor over in Caelrhon just retired after serving two kings for years and years, and King Lucas gave him a patent of nobility as a reward for his faithful service. So I decided if I did the same for you, then nobody could throw your parentage up at us.

  Would you rather be a countess or a duchess—before, of course, becoming queen?”

  II

  Gwennie took a deep breath and found her voice at last. “Let me thank you,” she said in a low tone, “thank you warmly for the honor you have done me. I’m sure it required considerable ingenuity to find a way that we might be married without your totally embarrassing yourself. But it will, I am certain, still be a considerable relief to you when I refuse.”

  Paul had been listening, his head tilted to one side, a smile on his lips. When she paused, it took several seconds for the smile to dissolve. “What do you mean, refuse?” he demanded then.

  Gwennie took his hand, pressed the ring into it, and stepped away. “I mean I will not marry you,” she said.

  Her voice trembled for a second, but she steadied it. “And therefore you need not worry about making me a countess or a duchess or anything else. But I shall always be grateful for the thought.”

  “Gwennie, I— I’m flabbergasted! It never occurred to me you wouldn’t want to marry me!”

  “It can occur to you now,” she said briskly and turned on her heel. “Now, if you will excuse me, sire, I need to return to my duties.”

  Paul jumped to block her path. “Gwennie, wait! You can’t just leave me like this!”

  “You’ve had your answer,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “What more do you need?”

  “A reason! I thought you loved me.”

  She kept her gaze resolutely fixed somewhere beyond his left ear. “My feelings do not come into this. As castle constable, I am sworn to uphold the best interests of Yurt, which precludes allowing its king to become a laughing-stock through such a misalliance.”

  “Laughing-stock! Gwennie, you can’t be serious. It’s— I see it now! You love somebody else! You don’t want to marry above your station because you’d feel uncomfortable being a queen. It’s that stable man, isn’t it!”

  For a second Gwennie looked as though she might laugh but changed her mind. “Do not make yourself jealous, sire, over any stable man. But you are quite correct.” Her voice had

  turned to ice. “I have no interest in marrying someone who thinks I am aspiring ‘above my station.’”

  “No, Gwennie, that didn’t come out right.”

  He took her arm, and she, looking imperious, stood stiffly while waiting for him to release it. “I mean, don’t all young girls dream of growing up to be queen?”

  “I dreamed of becoming castle constable,” she replied without any expression.

  At this Paul burst out, “Damnation, Gwennie, I love you!”

  “It would have helped,” she said through frozen lips, “if you had mentioned that before, and not in that tone of voice.”

  This was becoming almost too painful to observe. I retreated back into my chambers, but I could still hear their voices clearly through the open casement, and after a few seconds I silently stepped back to where I could see them again.

  “Of course I love you,” Paul said defensively. He had released her arm but still blocked her path, and she made no attempt to get by. “I said so! I said the ring stood for the ‘love and harmony we would share together.’ I know I said that.”

  “Then let me remind you of what else you said,” she answered, able to restrain her fury no longer. “I would have had to refuse you no matter how you proposed, but you’ve made it remarkably easy for me, sire! You told me you couldn’t possibly marry your own cook’s daughter. You told me the only reason you decided to marry now was because you liked children. You told me you’d always been sure that I loved you, and that all girls want to grow up to be queen. What am I supposed to make of this, sire?”

  “Can’t you even call me Paul like you usually do?” he broke in plaintively.

  “I’ll tell you, sire, what I make of this.” She faced him squarely, fists on her hips, eyes flashing—both beautiful and terrifying. Paul’s own features seemed to turn to stone as she spoke.

  “You’re comfortable as king of Yurt, so you didn’t want to complicate your life with anyone new. What better way, you thought, to resolve the problem of the inheritance than to make your oldest chum serve as a brood mare as well? After all, you decided, thinking of the years I’ve faithfully served you and sure that I must love you—without ever asking if I did!—I would serve you in this too. An entirely reasonable fear of social stigma held you back for a while, until this ‘patent of nobility’ notion came to your attention. The last inconvenience out of the way for a convenient and comfortable marriage. Well, let me tell you something, sire. You say you didn’t want to insult me by asking me to be your mistress. I would almost rather that you had. In that case, you might have least have felt compelled to say from the outset that you loved me!”

  Her voice broke with the final words. She spun past him, and this time he made no attempt to stop her. The tears were already running down her cheeks as she fled away across the courtyard.

  Paul hesitated until she was almost out of sight, then shouted, “Gwennie! Wait!” and started after her. I could hear a door slam over on the staff’s side of the castle long before he had a chance to catch up.

  Several minutes later there were rapid hoof beats on the stones of the courtyard, and Paul’s red roan stallion shot out of the stables, the king leaning low over his neck. For a second the hooves sounded hollow on the drawbridge, then they were gone.

  I slowly shook my head. Paul would not be back until dark, if then. My own personal life had had a few disasters along the way, but the king seemed at the moment far ahead of me.

  “And if the chief authority of a kingdom can’t even make a cook’s daughter do what he wants,” I said to no one in particular, “then it’s completely hopeles
s for wizards to try to control all of humanity.”

  Something caught my eye, sparkling in the sunlight out in the courtyard. I went out to take my air cart around to the stables, now that things were quiet again, and stooped to pick it up.

  It was the diamond ring.

  Neither Paul nor Gwennie was at dinner that evening. No one said anything about overhearing them, or about seeing the king belatedly chase a weeping Gwennie toward her chambers, and there weren’t even any whispers. But there was a distinct undercurrent of knowing. Conversation was stilted, and topics that might generally come up—such as marriage and children, jewelry, even Paul’s and Gwennie’s names—were not even mentioned.

  “I believe,” commented the queen mother as we ate, “it must be at least a month since the Princess Margareta has visited Yurt. The poor girl will think we’re neglecting her. I’ll call the royal court of Caelrhon this evening and invite her.”

  After dinner I determinedly took out the old wizard’s ledger and pulled close a magic lamp. It couldn’t hurt, I told myself again, to have a look at the old spells of the wizard who had taught the wizard who had trained the Master and founder of the school. The thought occurred to me as I reluctantly sat down at my desk that my time this evening would be much better spent out looking for Paul, who was still not home, but I told myself firmly that the king could take care of himself.

  I started conscientiously at the beginning of the book. Dust from the crumbling cover made me sneeze as I opened it.

  The first page said, in letters that still twinkled like stars in spite of the passage of centuries, “I, Naurag, most wise of all wizards, record herein my experiences and my spells. Let only the stalwart of heart and most learned of mind peruse them.” The handwriting was careful and clear—to me it looked like a very young man’s.

  The volume started off with a few weather spells, that appeared remarkably like what we still used at harvest-time, then turned to what seemed a highly improper spell, which would allow one to see inside another’s clothes—if, I supposed, one still had doubts about the shape of the mayor’s daughter. “This most cunning and mischievous spell have I devised myself,” the long-dead wizard Naurag had written proudly at the end of it. But I should not let myself be distracted. The spell for the Dragons’ Scepter should be in here somewhere.