Chapter 31 #2
“Maybe I’ll take you up on that someday,” he said, his tone much lighter now. “Who knows? An orc discovering a latent magical ability—maybe I’ll become the next king, myself.”
Alwyn blinked, then laughed, shaking his head. “I doubt that was the only qualification that allowed King Zorvut to take the throne.”
“Ah, right,” Krujha chuckled, grinning over at him. Finally his pensive mood had lifted; Alwyn couldn’t stop himself from smiling in return, grateful to have his usual, cheerful self back again. “Probably for the best, then. I don’t need the responsibility, anyway.”
Ferym sat with Alwyn three times the next day, after each meal, his healing magic making slow, careful progress through his burnt hands.
Krujha sat beside him the whole time, watching quietly as the healer worked, or talking incessantly as he always did when they were left to their own devices.
By the time he went to sleep, the palms and backs of both hands were looking much improved; the flesh there was fresh and pink, but not scarred the way it might have been if left to heal naturally.
On the second day, a letter came to the healer’s home addressed to Alwyn, bearing the seal of the office of the Mage Princeps.
“Tessarion wants to see me,” Alwyn said faintly as Ferym handed him the folded parchment. He didn’t need to open it to know what it was. His heart had sunk to the very bottom of his stomach. “He’ll be expecting me to report back.”
“Absolutely not,” Ferym said with a forcefulness that took Alwyn by surprise.
So far the healer had been quiet and mild-mannered, but for the first time he had a frown on his face, looking down at the missive Alwyn held.
“You’re in no shape to be going anywhere yet.
Whatever business you have with the Library can wait. ”
Alwyn remained silent, unsure of how to respond. Tessarion was not exactly the kind of man to be kept waiting, but he wasn’t eager to face his mentor either. How Tessarion even knew he was here was beyond him, though he should have expected the Mage Princeps’ eyes to be everywhere in the capital.
He opened the letter, finding a brief message inside.
Alwyn,
Report to my office as soon as possible.
Mage Princeps Tessarion Luthyra
“You need to rest, Alwyn,” Krujha said softly. “Everything with him can wait. If the healer says you can’t go, he can hardly argue with that.”
“I suppose,” Alwyn sighed. Tessarion could certainly argue with it, but he wasn’t sure if he would.
“I know better than to ask what you might have been doing, but I can see it was in service of the Library, and Aefraya,” Ferym continued after a moment.
“I will send a reply to the Mage Princeps’ office, letting them know I will send you when you’re well enough to leave again, and not a moment before. ”
Between the two of them, Alwyn knew any argument was a lost cause. He still had no idea how Tessarion might react to being refused, even if only temporarily, but he supposed he was about to find out.
“Alright,” he relented. “Far be it from me to refuse a healer’s orders.”
A small smile replaced the look of concern on Ferym’s face. “I knew you were a smart one.”
The next day, though, a messenger from Castle Aefraya arrived at the healer’s office just after breakfast.
“I have a summons for High Sorcerer Alwyn Alara,” the messenger said. Ferym had answered the door while he and Krujha still sat at the dining table. Krujha craned his neck to peer around the corner, watching the exchange.
“I sent a missive yesterday,” Ferym said, his voice rising in irritation once again.
Nothing else seemed to have perturbed him, and Alwyn found himself stifling a smile.
He supposed a good healer would care most for their patients.
“Alwyn will answer the Mage Princeps’ summons when he’s well enough to do so. ”
There was a beat of silence.
“Respectfully, healer,” the messenger said slowly, “this summons is not from the Mage Princeps.”
Another silence, broken by the faint sound of parchment changing hands. A moment later, Ferym appeared in the doorway, now looking at Alwyn with an inscrutable expression.
“I’m sorry, Alwyn,” he said, passing the parchment to him. “I don’t think I can tell the king to wait.”
The king had summoned him. Alwyn could see the fine quality of the parchment in his hands, which had no indications of being tampered with magically and bore the seal of the crown.
The fact that a messenger from the castle had delivered it, rather than being slipped in with Ferym’s usual mail the way Tessarion’s missive had been, also pointed toward its legitimacy.
The king had summoned him. Alwyn still couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it, nor understand why the summons might have happened at all, even as he slowly opened the folded letter.
What could the king possibly want from him?
He was sure official reports of what had happened would have reached Aefraya by now—were they truly so eager for his testimony, too? Was he to be questioned? Commended?
The missive, nearly as short and curt as Tessarion’s had been, gave him no insight.
High Sorcerer Alwyn Alara:
By order of King Ruven Glynzeiros, you are to report to the Office of the King this afternoon.
But Ferym was right—though he might keep Tessarion waiting, the king would not be refused so easily.
He and Krujha helped Alwyn bathe and dress, so he looked as presentable as possible.
Though he was well enough to walk for short distances now, Ferym still insisted he take a carriage to and from the castle instead of walking there and back.
Alwyn sat staring down at his bandaged hands for the entire short journey, trying to keep his mind from running away from him with worry. When they arrived, Krujha helped Alwyn out of the carriage, then followed him into the royal courtyard, where the castle’s grand entrance loomed.