Is This Apocalypse Necessary? Read online

  I had never stolen anything from another wizard, I thought indignantly. If the Master of the school was likening me to Naurag, I hoped he kept that in mind.

  Greatly daring, Naurag, still with his ‘purple companion,’ had ventured out from the borderlands, north nearly to the central valley where the largest dragons lived, and there worked his spell again, attaching it as he went to the staff. “I baptize this staff the Dragons’ Scepter,” he wrote proudly, describing it all after the fact as though it had been a much simpler process than I suspected it really was, “baptized not in religion but in spells of my own devising, and with this instrument I can make the fiercest serpent bow its scaly neck to me.”

  I glanced across the room to where an old wizard’s staff leaned in the corner. It had once belonged to my predecessor here in Yurt. I didn’t think it had any particular powers latent within it, but it crossed my mind to wonder if I might be able to attach Naurag’s spell to it myself, up in the land of dragons, even if I couldn’t find the original Scepter. The nagging voice pointed out that this was sounding more and more as though I planned a trip north soon.

  This was still an intellectual exercise, I reminded myself. Just because his spell had worked for him didn’t mean it would work for me. Not even the Master himself had attempted to reproduce the spells that had created the Dragons’ Scepter. Naurag was a better wizard than I could ever be if I lived far longer than the Master.

  The next few pages of the ledger were sheer boasting. If I could believe him, once Naurag had perfected his Scepter he spent several weeks commanding the dragons, lining them up like soldiers, forcing them to perform exhausting feats of precision flying, leading them, astride his purple companion, on flights to the icecaps of the ultimate north: breaking their will to resist, until when he finally decided to become more lenient they had laid their scaly snouts at his feet in sheer gratitude for his mercy.

  The Princess Margareta arrived from the neighboring kingdom late in the afternoon. I was out in the courtyard, getting some fresh air and trying to catch my breath mentally, when I heard the note of a trumpet and spotted a group of riders emerging from the woods below the castle.

  As the riders kicked their horses for the final ascent, the bells on their bridles all pealing, the queen hurried out to meet them. King Paul was with her, formally dressed in blue and white velvet and looking uncharacteristically sober.

  Princess Margareta drew her white mare to a halt.

  The knights and ladies with her laughed and called greetings to their friends in the castle of Yurt, but the princess looked around her coolly. Was it a proprietary look she gave the castle’s whitewashed towers? Or was it a look of ennui at being summoned here once again with no more indication, than there had been on any of her preceding dozens of visits, of progress toward becoming queen?

  But this time Paul, who usually treated her like a slightly annoying little sister, took her stirrup and helped her dismount. “Welcome to Yurt, my lady,” he said gravely.

  Maybe he regretted his outburst this morning, I thought, and was trying to make up for it now by being especially polite and sober.

  Margareta smiled suddenly and took the king’s arm.

  “I am glad for this invitation, Paul,” she said, as if it had been he who called her rather than the queen mother. I also noted that she used his name very familiarly. He escorted her toward the best guest chambers while the stable boys led the horses away. She had grown tall and willowy, and as the queen looked after them I thought at least I could see her point: they would if nothing else be a handsome couple.

  “The summer has been infinitely boring,” I overheard her continue. She had managed to lose the squeaky voice she had had when younger. “Father had promised as recently as Christmas to take us to Xantium this year, but by springtime he was saying it would be too hot in the summer, and now I fear he will

  shortly be saying that the autumn winds are too rough on the Central Sea.”

  “I’ve never been to Xantium either,” said Paul encouragingly, “although my own father went years ago.

  I hear the journey is long and dangerous, which may be why King Lucas doesn’t really want to undertake it. Maybe you and I could go on our own instead.”

  Margareta stopped in her slow stroll across the courtyard to gaze at him with new interest. I stared myself. I had been on the trip to Xantium with old King Haimeric of Yurt, and I would not have recommended it to an elegant princess.

  “There perhaps I could buy some really unusual and lovely silk dresses,” Margareta said dreamily.

  “Then maybe I could have a real adventure and use the skills in which I’ve been training all my life,” suggested Paul.

  The princess’s own serving maid, along with the maid from here in Yurt who always assisted her on her visits, ushered Margareta into the guest chambers, and the king wandered back across the courtyard toward the great hall. I glanced quickly around, relieved that I did not see Gwennie anywhere—and wondering if the maid would drop any interesting hints about recent developments in Paul’s personal life. In a closed community like this, one might as well forget about keeping anything secret, and the staff generally knew the details even better than the principals.

  But concentration on Naurag’s account made me forget, at least for the next two hours, about Paul and the princess.

  This section was written in gleeful anticipation. “Those that did most scorn me shall I strike most mightily with the force I now command,” he said. Not content with precision drilling in the land of magic, he had decided to take his dragons south. Skipping through what struck me as a rather blood-thirsty desire for vengeance, I searched for an indication that the Scepter had continued to work for him even when out of the land of magic.

  And it had. But it took me several minutes to realize quite how well it had worked. There were a number of blank pages, with nothing beyond a few odd words jotted on them, then the memoir resumed again. Both the handwriting and the ink had altered; the blank pages, I concluded, must have separated accounts written years apart, even decades.

  “Belike even a wizard grows old,” his new account began, and I had to modify my conclusions: at least a century must have passed. “My apprentices commence now to take to themselves apprentices of their own.” Maybe even two centuries.

  “When I look about me, I see a City at peace, the City where once emperors strutted, now under the benign control of wizardry. The bloody misadventures of my youth could have been those of another man. E’en my purple companion is long gone, though his skin serves me still. But the Dragons’ Scepter stays ever at my hand.”

  He had ruled the City, then, as Elerius hoped to rule it now. He spoke of peace but this, I calculated, must all still be before the Black Wars. Imposing peace on others was not enough without some sort of organization to ensure that wizards themselves were not drawn into deadly quarrels.

  His account continued, filling in a few details from the years he had not chronicled as they happened: years in which he used his authority over the dragons to annihilate any who opposed

  him. Drawn inexorably from their northern lairs, the dragons had been forced to come at his command and bring destruction to Naurag’s enemies. The spells attached to the Scepter served him extremely well. His tone here was sober, even regretful, though regret constantly had to fight with pride of accomplishment. Once again I became indignant at the thought that the Master might compare me to Naurag; I had never annihilated anyone in my life.

  But then, as he faced his own death, he had also faced the decision of how to dispose of his magical authority over the dragons. A final time he went north, not to summon dragon forces again but only to drill them in formation one last time. “My once-ferocious friends begged me,” he continued, remarkably airily, “to leave the Scepter behind when I finally determined to return unto the lands of men. They wished no other hand to wield it as I had.” I could see their point.

  At dinner King Paul and Princess Margareta wer
e still talking about Xantium. I was the only person now in Yurt ever to have been there, but they didn’t ask my opinion.

  “All the luxury goods of the East, I understand, are to be found in Xantium,” said Margareta. “Not just the silks and spices, but exquisite jewels, costly perfumes, the most delicately crafted gold and silver, ointments that will keep a woman’s skin as pure and smooth as a baby’s.”

  “My father’s party had to fight off several groups of bandits on his way east, and they almost got caught between two warring armies,” Paul said cheerfully, without seeming to hear anything she said.

  “I hear the governor’s palace in Xantium puts even the greatest castles of the Western Kingdoms to shame in its elegance and beauty,” said Margareta.

  “Then they were all captured by an Ifrit,” added Paul.

  When one of the knights asked what an Ifrit was, I was forced to rouse myself. Just as well; thinking about Naurag, I had been staring at my plate and scarcely tasting the food. But I now explained that an Ifrit is an enormous though vaguely manlike creature, imbued with great magical power: some said that the Ifriti had been created first of all creatures when the world was made, to help with digging rivers and pushing up the mountains. They were never seen in the West, but I knew from experience that at least one still lived in the deserts far beyond Xantium.

  Ifriti gave Margareta pause, although the king was apparently absorbed in plans of how he could defeat one in battle—plans, I could have told him, that were all quite useless. But I gave their conversation little more attention, wondering instead if I should try some of Naurag’s simpler spells on the air cart. If they worked here, at least there might be some hope they would work on a dragon.

  “You haven’t been here since the two most recent foals were born,” Paul said to the princess when it finally occurred to him that she was not captivated by his imagined future battles.

  She had been sitting silently for the last ten minutes, but at this she inclined her head gracefully and smiled at him.

  “Are they red roans, like your Bonfire?” she asked. Even a princess whose own interests went little further than fine silks and marble palaces must know that the best way to Paul’s heart was through his horses. “I understand that the steeds of Yurt are becoming renowned throughout this part of the Western Kingdoms.”

  “I’ll take you to see them a little later,” he said, promising a great treat. Dessert had come by this point, and I took a few quick bites of mine before leaving to go try my spells.

  The stables were quiet and dim, lit by a single magic lamp—far safer than a lantern with all this hay to burn.

  My air cart was in a stall by itself at the far end. The horses here had become used to it over the years. Princess Margareta’s mare flared her nostrils at me, but as I passed between rows of stalls there was little activity beyond the munching of oats.

  Inside the stall with the air cart, I said a few magical words to lift it from the ground, then tried one of the spells that, according to Naurag, had allowed him to assemble the dragons into formation. My cart had no other carts with which to muster, but it obediently canted sideways, lifting one wing high in salute.

  Encouraged, I tried a command that should lead to great speed—one of the shortcomings of the air carts had always been their slow though steady pace. The air cart shot away, over the heads of startled horses, and rammed itself against the stable doors, its wings beating madly. Hooves slammed against the stalls, and Paul’s stallion trumpeted a challenge.

  “I should have tried this outside,” I thought, saying the quick spell to stop the cart and bring it back.

  But there seemed little doubt that Naurag knew what he was talking about.

  Though intrigued by this progress, for several minutes I tried nothing more, waiting for the horses to calm down again. Just as I was about to take the air cart out into the courtyard, the stable doors opened, and I heard voices. “The foals are right in here,” said Paul.

  I ducked down, not wanting to surprise the king and the princess with my presence. I would wait to try further experiments until they were gone.

  Princess Margareta squealed at how adorable the foals were. “Look at their legs—how long!” she exclaimed. “And their tiny little noses! Could I feed them a carrot?”

  “They’re still just drinking mares’ milk,” said Paul apologetically.

  “Have you named them yet?” she asked.

  “Can I name them? This one is so red she reminds me of a rose—I’ll name her Rosie.”

  “That’s actually a little colt,” said Paul awkwardly. “He’ll grow into a stallion,” he added, as the princess seemed uncomprehending.

  “Then I’ll name the other one Rosie,” she said cheerfully. “And call this one Thorn. Won’t those be good names?”

  Sitting on the floor I couldn’t see the king’s expression, but he only hesitated a moment before saying smoothly, “Usually I wait until they’re a little older to name them, to make sure the names suit their temperament.”

  “Feel how soft Baby Thorn’s fur is,” replied the princess. “And the tiny little mane on Rosie stands straight up!”

  I could hear Paul take and let out a deep breath.

  “Princess Margareta. Please turn around for a moment and look at me. I have something to tell you.”

  Either she didn’t catch the quiet intensity in the king’s voice or else she chose to ignore it. “And Thorn’s little lips re so soft—oh! He’s trying to chew a hole in my sleeve!”

  “He’s just trying to nurse,” said Paul, sounding amused for a second. But then he was again all seriousness.

  “I want to ask you something.”

  No, I thought. He can’t do this! Not at least until I figure out the Dragons’ Scepter. But if I was still thinking about it, the nagging voice at the back of my mind told me, I must really be planning to use it against Elerius, which meant that it should scarcely matter to me whom Paul married, because I would not be alive to see it.

  “So is Bonfire their sire?” asked Margareta, just a little too loudly. “He must be, from their coats! Didn’t you tell me once that he came from up near the land of magic? Maybe that would be an even more exciting place to visit than Xantium.”

  There was no question now that she was putting him off. “Well, I was there once, but—” Paul started to say, then realized it too. I would have given up the effort, but my king was nothing if not persistent.

  “Princess, please listen to me.”

  “Didn’t you have some yearlings?” she asked desperately, but this time he would not be distracted.

  “Margareta, dearest princess, I have come to a momentous decision. I need a wife beside me in Yurt, a woman to be my queen. You must know that I have always loved you beyond all other women, that my heart has been entirely at your command ever since you were the tiniest girl.” At least this time he had the words right, but I could have told him the tone, low and flat, was entirely wrong. “I hereby offer you this diamond ring, as an eternal and unchanging symbol of the love between us.”

  There was a long silence. This seemed all the king had to say, and Margareta for the moment appeared incapable of answering. At last she said, in nearly as flat a voice as his, “Just like that. We’re standing here in the stable and you ask me to be Queen of Yurt.”

  “Because I love you,” said Paul, determined to get that detail clear this time. “I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to ask you as soon as we were alone.”

  Margareta made a little snorting noise. “You’re acting like some stable man,” she started to say, then checked herself. Paul made a sound that could have been a moan or a cough but did not interrupt. “As a princess,” she continued icily, “I had always expected that the man of royal blood who would win my hand and heart would ask for them in the most romantic way possible, not just blurt it out while we were standing up to our ankles in straw!”

  “Um, I think my mother’s planning a ball while you’re here,” Paul ventu
red. “If you like, we can forget about this for now and I’ll ask you then. That should be romantic,” he added lamely. “I could ask you to marry me in front of the whole court, Gwennie, and then—” He stopped as abruptly as if his tongue had turned to stone in his mouth. He probably wished it had—only about two seconds earlier.

  The princess’s breath hissed between her teeth.

  “Then it’s true,” she said, so fiercely that if I were Paul I would have backed rapidly toward the exit. “I have heard the rumors before, and heard new rumors when I arrived today. But I have always dismissed them. King Paul, I told myself, has been destined for me since I was a little girl. I might worry about his heart being won by another lady of high lineage, but never, I persuaded myself, never would he lower himself so far as to fall in love with his own cook’s daughter!”

  “Well, no, Margareta, you don’t have to worry about that anymore,” he said wildly. “You see, just yesterday—” He stopped short with the realization that he could make this far worse than it already was. But it was too late.

  “That’s all you think of me?” she cried.

  “Second best to your own castle constable?” At least Paul seemed to have broken through the princess’s accustomed languor. “She turns you down, and so the very next day, to assuage your wounded dignity, you stammer out some completely insincere proposal to me?” She gave a sudden little scream. “And your horrible colt has eaten a hole in my dress!”

  She turned and ran then, sobbing, toward the courtyard, with more energy than any of us had ever seen in her before. The horses and I put our noses over the edges of the stalls to watch her go. Just before leaving she cast something from her hand. Paul waited much too long before calling out, “Margareta!

  Wait!” and running after her.

  This time it took me several minutes to find the diamond ring, half-buried in the straw. I put a tracing spell on it before dropping it into my pocket, in case this kept on happening.