Chapter 24 #3
For the first time Zacharias realised what extremely sharp teeth Leofric had, and how numerous they were.
“It would hurt you,” said Leofric. “You would survive—but not for very long.”
“You would have all of me, upon my death,” said Zacharias. “And you would have had the pleasure of a living meal before then.”
Leofric abandoned Sir Stephen’s body and dropped down on his haunches, the better to consider Zacharias.
“It could be done,” he said. “I should have to enter you. You will find the enforced intimacy a trial. I am no garrulous enthusiast, no chattering blockhead, as you know, but you would be aware of my presence at all times. You would never be alone—never wholly yourself—again.”
He paused for reflection, and a shiver went along his wings. “If I occupied your person, that would make you a sorcerer. One soul for two sorcerers is a bad bargain, you cannot deny.”
“Then it is fortunate, is it not, that I would not be a sorcerer for very long?” said Zacharias.
“Do you truly wish to sacrifice yourself for your guardian?” said Leofric. “Recall: Stephen was ageing, and you are yet young. He understood the deal he struck. You do not owe him so much.”
“I owe him a great deal,” said Zacharias. “But what I offer, I offer for the great affection I bore him. And for the love he bore me.”
As he spoke, he knew all he said to be true. Love and grief bore him up. He looked unwaveringly at the dragon, bolstered by the courage they lent him.
Leofric was silent. Then he lifted his head, his eyes glowing.
“It would be churlish of me to reject such a gift,” he said. “There is a final point to settle, however.”
He coughed, and continued with a touch of primness:
“There is my reputation to think of. My acquaintance in Fairyland sneer because I have elected to pass my days at the service of a mortal magician. The only reason they have not thrown me off altogether is because the mortal I acknowledge as my master is the supreme magician of magicians—the chosen of all sorcerers in Britain. I can be familiar to no lesser personage than the Sorcerer Royal.”
Zacharias stared. Yet there was a nightmarish logic to it. He knew, as well as Leofric, that Sir Stephen had intended that Zacharias should be his successor, when old age or death should have put it out of his power to continue to perform his duties.
“The staff is in the stand,” said Leofric. “You need only take it up. It will know you, I promise.”
Zacharias thought of what Sir Stephen’s life had been.
He had had influence, yes—he had been esteemed by his colleagues, had mingled with the good and great of the land, and enjoyed the many fruits of his labours.
But thirty years ago Sir Stephen had been one of the most lauded young innovators in unnatural philosophy, who by his researches had promised to deepen humanity’s understanding of magic, and strike out fresh paths untried by any thaumaturge before him.
What discoveries had he made since he had taken up the staff?
What time had he had to pursue his own researches?
He had been consumed by the neverending work of managing his wayward flock of thaumaturges, ingratiating himself with the Fairy Court, and appeasing a Government that thought Britain ought to be able to conquer magic by main force, as they did other nations.
Zacharias had hoped for a different life. But he had been given so much—far more than most thought he deserved—far more than he might otherwise have had. He had known all along that he would have to pay for it.
“If I take up the staff, you will leave Sir Stephen be?” he said.
“He will be left to go his own way, to salvation, or damnation—whichever he merits,” said Leofric. “And I will serve you as familiar until the end of your life, whenever that may be, by the terms of this new Exchange.”
“Well,” said Zacharias. “You cannot say fairer than that.”
He stepped across the room and took up the staff.
Leofric vanished, and the room filled with thick black smoke. Zacharias choked on it, coughed, and struggled to breathe, but he could only draw in lungfuls of smoke, which coalesced into a deadweight within his chest. Power ran through his limbs. His vision became suddenly, almost painfully keen.
Sir Stephen’s body lay limp and undisturbed in his chair. Sir Stephen rose from it, his ghostly countenance drawn with horror. He said:
“Zacharias, what have you done?”
Zacharias did not answer.
The pain had begun—an agony that clutched his stomach like a vise, and gnawed unbearably at his vitals.
It would not always be so bad, for he was usually granted a remittance during the day.
Wishing, probably, to prolong his feast, Leofric reserved the worst attacks for midnight.
At times Zacharias could almost believe himself unaffected, save for the feeling that dogged him, that he had lost something the night Sir Stephen died, and would never recover it.
He did not see Leofric again, for Leofric was always with him. The dragon had only spoken the truth. Zacharias was never wholly himself again.